H^^^S 


Boston  College 
Library 


Henry  C.   McDuff 
Memorial    Collection 


i 


^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/kiltartanpoetrybOOgreg_0 


By  Lady  Gregory 


Irish  Folk-History  Plays 

First  Series:    The  Tragedies 

Grania.     Kincora.     Dervorgilla 

Second  Series:    The  Tragic  Comedies 

The  Canavans.     The  White  Cockade.     The  Deliverer 

New  Comedies 

The  Bogie  Men.  The  Full  Moon.  Coats.  Darner's 
Gold,     McDonough's  Wife 

Our  Irish  Theatre 

A  Chapter  of  Autobiography 

Seven  Short  Plays 

Spreading  the  News.  Hyacinth  Halvey.  The  Rising 
of  the  Moon.  The  Jackdaw.  The  Workhouse  Ward, 
The  Travelling  Man.     The  Gaol  Gate 

The  Golden  Apple 

A  Kiltartan  Play  for  Children 

Visions  and  Beliefs^     Two  Volumes 

First  and  Second  Series 

The  Kiltartan  Poetry  Book 


THE 
KILTARTAN  POETRY  BOOK 

PROSE  TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
THE  IRISH 

By  LADY  GREGORY -~-C     _ 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

Zbe  iftntcftcrbocfter  t>tese 

1919 


BOSTOW  GOLLIQS  LIBRARY 
CH18TNWT  HILL,  MASSi 


Copyright,  1919 

BY 

LADY  GREGORY 


BOS'TON  COl-LEOS  0I3RARY 

Ubc  Iknicfterbocfter  jprcss,  mew  l^orh 


Introduction 

I 

If  in  my  childhood  I  had  been  asked  to  give 
the  name  of  an  Irish  poem,  I  should  certainly 
have  said  ''Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old/' 
or  ''Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore" ;  for 
although  among  the  ornamental  books  that  lay 
on  the  round  drawingroom  table,  the  only  one 
of  Moore's  was  Lalla  Rookh,  some  guest  would 
now  and  then  sing  one  of  his  melodies  at  the 
piano ;  and  I  can  remember  vexing  or  trying  to 
vex  my  governess  by  triumphant  mention  of 
Malachi's  collar  of  gold,  she  no  doubt  as  well  as 
I  believing  the  "proud  invader"  it  was  torn 
from  to  have  been,  like  herself,  an  English  one. 
A  little  later  I  came  to  know  other  verses,  bal- 
lads nearer  to  the  tradition  of  the  country  than 
Moore's  faint  sentiment.    For  a  romantic  love  of 

3 


4  Introduction 

country  had  awakened  in  me,  perhaps  through 
the  wide  beauty  of  my  home,  from  whose  hill- 
sides I  could  see  the  mountain  of  Burren  and  lar 
Connacht,  and  at  sunset  the  silver  western  sea; 
or  it  maybe  through  the  half  revealed  sympathy 
of  my  old  nurse  for  the  rebels  whose  cheering 
she  remembered  when  the  French  landed  at 
Killala  in  '98;  or  perhaps  but  through  the  na- 
tural breaking  of  a  younger  child  of  the  house 
from  the  conservatism  of  her  elders.  So  when 
we  were  taken  sometimes  as  a  treat  the  five  mile 
drive  to  our  market  town,  Loughrea,  I  would, 
on  tiptoe  at  the  counter,  hold  up  the  six  pence 
earned  by  saying  without  a  mistake  my  Bible 
lesson  on  the  Sunday,  and  the  old  stationer, 
looking  down  through  his  spectacles  would 
give  me  what  I  wanted  saying  that  I  was  his 
best  customer  for  Fenian  books;  and  one  of 
my  sisters,  rather  doubtfully  consenting  to  my 
choice  of  The  Spirit  of  the  Nation  for  a  birthday 
present,  qualified  the  gift  by  copying  into  it 
''Patriotism  is  the  last  refuge  of  a  scoundrel." 


Introduction  5 

I  have  some  of  them  by  me  yet,  the  Httle  books 
in  gay  paper  or  in  green  cloth,  and  some  verses 
in  them  seem  to  me  no  less  moving  than  in  those 
early  days,  such  as  Davis's  lament* 

We  thought  you  would  not  die,  we  were  sure  you 

would  not  go 
And  leave  us  in  our  utmost  need  to  Cromwell's 

cruel  blow; 
Sheep  without  a  shepherd  when  the  snow  shuts  out 

the  sky, 
O  why  did  you  leave  us  Owen  ?    Why  did  you  die  ? 

And  if  some  others  are  little  more  than  a 
catalogue,  unmusical,  as: — 

Now  to  begin  to  name  them  I'll  continue  in  a  direct 

line, 
There's  John  Mitchell,  Thomas  Francis  Meagher 

and  also  William  Smith  O'Brien; 
John  Martin  and  O'Donoghue,  Erin  sorely  feels 

their  loss. 
And  to  complete  their  number  I  will  include 

0' Donovan  Ross — 

yet  there  is  in  them  a  certain  dignity,  an  in- 
tensity born  of  continuity  of  purpose;  they  are 


6  Introduction 

roughly  hammered  links  in  a  chain  of  unequal 
workmanship,  but  stretching  back  through  the 
centuries  to  the  Munster  poets  of  the  days  of 
Elizabeth,  advised  by  Spenser  to  harry  them 
out  of  Ireland.  The  names  change  from  age  to 
age,  that  is  all.  The  verses  of  the  seventeenth 
century  hallow  those  of  Mac  Carthys  and  Fitz- 
geralds  who  fought  for  the  Stuarts  or  ''knocked 
obedience  out  of  the  Gall " ;  the  eighteenth  ended 
with  the  rebels  of  '98 ;  the  nineteenth  had  Emmet 
and  Mitchell  and  its  Manchester  martyrs. 
Already  in  these  early  days  of  the  twentieth  the 
street  singers  cry  out: 

Mac  Dermott,   Mallin,  Hanrahan,  Daly,  Colbert 

8.nd  Mac  Bride 
All  men  who  for  our  country's  cause  have  nobly 

bled  and  died. 

Even  Yeats,  falling  into  the  tradition,  has  put 
in  a  lyric  the  names  of  some  of  those  who  died 
in  Easter  week,  and  through  whose  death  ''a 
terrible  beauty  is  born.'* 


Introduction  7 

II 

I  am  glad  to  remember  that  through  the 
twelve  years  of  our  married  life,  1880--92,  my 
husband  and  his  people  were  able  to  keep  their 
liking  and  respect  for  each  other.  For  those 
were  the  years  of  the  land  war,  tenant  struggling 
to  gain  a  lasting  possession  for  his  children, 
landlord  to  keep  that  which  had  been  given  in 
trust  to  him  for  his;  each  ready  in  his  anger  to 
turn  the  heritage  of  the  other  to  desolation; 
while  the  vision  of  some  went  yet  farther, 
through  breaking  to  the  rebuilding  of  a  nation. 
The  passion,  the  imagination  of  Ireland  were 
thrown  into  the  fight.  I  often  thought  to  find 
some  poem  putting  such  passion  into  fiery  or 
memorable  lines.  But  the  first  I  thought  worth 
the  keeping, — I  have  it  yet,  was  Katherine 
Tynan's  lament  for  Pamell,  written  two  years 
after  his  death.  In  tearing  it  from  the  corner  of 
some  newspaper  I  had  unwittingly  taken  note  of 
almost  the  moment  of  a  new  impulse  in  lit- 


8  Introduction 

erature,  in  poetry.  For  with  that  death,  the  loss 
of  that  dominant  personaHty,  and  in  the  quarrel 
that  followed,  came  the  disbanding  of  an  army, 
the  unloosing  of  forces,  the  setting  free  of  the 
imagination  of  Ireland. 


Ill 


Once  in  my  childhood  I  had  been  eager  to 
learn  Irish ;  I  thought  to  get  leave  to  take  lessons 
from  an  old  Scripture-reader  who  spent  a  part 
of  his  time  in  the  parish  of  Killinane,  teaching 
such  scholars  as  he  could  find  to  read  their  own 
language  in  the  hope  that  they  might  turn  to 
the  only  book  then  being  printed  in  Irish,  the 
Bible.  But  my  asking,  timid  with  the  fear  of 
mockery,  was  unheeded.  Yet  I  missed  but  by  a 
little  an  opportunity  that  might  have  made  me 
a  real  Irish  scholar,  and  not  as  I  am,  imperfect, 
stumbling.  For  a  kinsman  learned  in  the 
language,  the  translator  of  the  wonderful  Silva 
Gaedelica  had  been  sometimes  a  guest  in  the 


Introduction  9 

house,  and  would  still  have  been  welcomed  there 
but  that  my  mother,  who  had  a  great  dislike  to 
the  marriage  of  cousins  had  fancied  he  was 
taking  a  liking  to  one  of  my  elder  sisters ;  and 
with  that  suspicion  the  ''winged  nymph,  Oppor- 
tunity" had  passed  from  my  reach.  After  my 
marriage  I  bought  a  grammar  and  worked  at  it 
for  a  while  with  the  help  of  a  gardener.  But 
it  was  difficult  and  my  teacher  was  languid,  sus- 
pecting it  may  be  some  hidden  mockery,  for 
those  were  the  days  before  Irish  became  the 
fashion.  It  was  not  till  a  dozen  or  more  years 
later,  and  after  my  husband's  death,  that  my 
son,  having  won  the  classical  entrance  scholar- 
ship at  Harrow,  took  a  fancy  to  learn  a  nearer 
language,  and  rode  over  to  Tillyra  before  break- 
fast one  morning  to  ask  our  neighbour  Edward 
Martyn  to  help  him  to  a  teacher.  He  came 
back  without  what  he  had  sought,  but  with  the 
gift  of  a  fine  old  Irish  Bible,  which  became  a 
help  in  our  early  lessons.  For  we  set  to  work 
together,  and  I  found  the  task  a  light  one  in 


lo  Introduction 

comparison  with  those  first  attempts.  For  that 
young  priest,  Father  Eugene  O'Growney,  sent 
from  Ireland  to  look  for  health  in  California, 
had  used  the  short  space  of  life  left  to  him  in 
writing  simple  lessons  in  Irish  grammar,  that 
made  at  least  the  first  steps  easy.  And  another 
thing  had  happened.  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  An 
Craoibhin,  had  founded  the  Gaelic  League,  and 
through  it  country  people  were  gathered  to- 
gether in  the  Irish  speaking  places  to  give  the 
songs  and  poems,  old  and  new,  kept  in  their 
memory.  This  discovery,  this  disclosure  of  the 
folk  learning,  the  folk  poetry,  the  ancient  tradi- 
tion, was  the  small  beginning  of  a  weighty 
change.  It  was  an  upsetting  of  the  table  of 
values,  an  astonishing  excitement.  The  imagi- 
nation of  Ireland  had  found  a  new  homing 
place. 

IV 

.  My  own  imagination  was  aroused.     I  was 
becoming  conscious  of  a  world  close  to  me  and 


Introduction  1 1 

that  I  had  been  ignorant  of.  It  was  not  now 
in  the  comers  of  newspapers  I  looked  for  poetic 
emotion,  nor  even  to  the  singers  in  the  streets. 
It  was  among  farmers  and  potato  diggers  and 
old  men  in  workhouses  and  beggars  at  my  own 
door  that  I  found  what  was  beyond  these  and 
yet  farther  beyond  that  drawingroom  poet  of 
my  childhood  in  the  expression  of  love,  and 
grief,  and  the  pain  of  parting,  that  are  the  dis- 
closure of  the  individual  soul. 

An  Aran  man,  repeating  to  me  The  Grief  of  a 
Girl's  Heart  in  Irish  told  me  it  was  with  that 
song  his  mother  had  often  sung  him  to  sleep  as  a 
child.  It  was  from  an  old  woman  who  had 
known  Mary  Hynes  and  who  said  of  her  ''The 
sun  and  the  moon  never  shone  upon  anything  so 
handsome''  that  I  first  heard  Raftery's  song  of 
praise  of  her,  ''The  pearl  that  was  at  Bally  lee, " 
a  song  "that  has  gone  around  the  world  &  as 
far  as  America."  It  was  in  a  stonecutter's 
house  where  I  went  to  have  a  headstone  made 
for  Raftery's  grave  that  I  found  a  manuscript 


12  Introduction 

book  of  his  poems,  written  out  in  the  clear 
beautiful  Irish  characters.  It  was  to  a  working 
farmer's  house  I  walked  on  many  a  moonlit 
evening  with  the  manuscript  that  his  greater 
knowledge  helped  me  to  understand  and  by  his 
hearth  that  I  read  for  the  first  time  the  Vision 
of  Death  and  the  Lament  for  O'Daly.  After 
that  I  met  with  many  old  people  who  had  in  the 
days  before  the  Famine  seen  or  talked  with  the 
wandering  poet  who  was  in  the  succession  of 
those  who  had  made  and  recited  their  lyrics  on 
the  Irish  roads  before  Chaucer  wrote. 


And  so  I  came  by  the  road  nearest  me  to  the 
old  legends,  the  old  heroic  poems.  It  was  a  man 
of  a  hundred  years  who  told  me  the  story  of 
Cuchulain's  fight  with  his  own  son,  the  son  of 
Aoife,  and  how  the  young  man  as  he  lay  dying 
had  reproached  him  and  said  ' '  Did  you  not  see 
how  I  threw  every  spear  fair  and  easy  at  you, 


Introduction  13 

and  you  threw  your  spear  hard  and  wicked  at 
me?  And  I  did  not  come  out  to  tell  my  name 
to  one  or  to  two  but  if  I  had  told  it  to  anyone 
in  the  whole  world,  I  would  soonest  tell  it 
to  your  pale  face."  Deirdre's  beauty  ''that 
brought  the  Sons  of  Usnach  to  their  death'' 
comes  into  many  of  the  country  songs.  Grania 
of  the  yet  earlier  poems  is  not  so  well  thought  of. 
An  old  basket-maker  said  scornfully  ''Many 
would  tell  you  she  slept  under  the  cromlechs 
but  I  don't  believe  that,  and  she  a  king's  daugh- 
ter. And  I  don't  believe  she  was  handsome, 
either.  If  she  was,  why  would  she  have  run 
away?"  And  another  said  "Finn  had  more 
wisdom  than  all  the  men  of  the  world,  but  he 
wasn't  wise  enough  to  put  a  bar  on  Grania." 
I  was  told  in  many  places  of  Osgar's  bravery  and 
Goll's  strength  and  Conan's  bitter  tongue,  and 
the  arguments  of  Oisin  and  Patrick.  And  I 
have  often  been  given  the  story  of  Oisin 's  jour- 
ney to  Tir-nan-Og,  the  Country  of  the  Young, 
that  is,  as  I  am  told,  "a  fine  place  and  every- 


14  Introduction 

thing  that  is  good  is  in  it.  And  if  anyone  is  sent 
there  for  a  minute  he  will  want  to  stop  in  it,  and 
twenty  years  will  seem  to  him  like  one  half 
hour*/'  and  ''they  say  Tir-nan-Og  is  there  yet, 
and  so  it  may  be  in  any  place/' 


VI 


In  the  ancient  times  the  poets  told  of  this 
Country  of  the  Young,  with  its  trees  bearing 
fruit  and  blossom  at  the  one  time;  its  golden 
apples  that  gave  lasting  life;  its  armies  ''that 
go  out  in  good  order,  ahead  of  their  beautiful 
king,  marching  among  blue  spears  scattering 
their  enemies,  an  army  with  high  looks,  rushing, 
avenging;''  before  news  had  come  to  Ireland, 
of  the  Evangelist's  vision  of  the  Tree  of  Life 
and  of  the  "white  horse,  and  he  that  sat  on  him 
had  a  bow,  and  a  crown  was  given  to  him,  and 
he  went  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer." 
They  had  told  of  the  place  "where  delight  is 
common,  and  music"  before  saintly  Columcille 


Introduction  15 

on  the  night  of  the  Sabbath  of  rest  ''reached  to 
the  troops  of  the  archangels  and  the  plain  where 
music  has  not  to  be  born."  But  in  later  days 
religion,  while  offering  abundant  pictures  of  an 
after  world  of  punishment,  ''the  flagstone  of 
pain,"  "the  cauldron  that  is  boiling  for  ever,*' 
the  fire  the  least  flame  of  which  is  "bigger  than 
fifteen  hundred  of  turf,"  so  that  Oisin  listening 
to  St.  Patrick  demands  a  familiar  weapon,  an 
iron  flail,  to  beat  down  such  familiar  terrors, 
has  left  Heaven  itself  far  off,  mysterious,  in- 
tangible, without  earthly  similes  or  foreshadow- 
ings.  I  think  it  is  perhaps  because  of  this  that 
the  country  poets  of  to-day  and  yesterday  have 
put  their  dream,  their  vision  of  the  Delectable 
Mountains,  of  the  Land  of  Promise,  into  exag- 
gerated praise  of  places  dear  to  them.  Raftery 
sees  something  beyond  the  barren  Mayo  bogs 
when  he  tells  of  that  "fine  place  without  fog 
falling,  a  blessed  place  that  the  sun  shines  on, 
and  the  wind  does  not  rise  there  or  anything  of 
the  sort,  "  and  where  as  he  says  in  another  poem 


1 6  Introduction 

''logwood  and  mahogany"  grow  in  company 
"vith  its  wind  twisted  beech  and  storm  bent 
sycamore.  Even  my  own  hom.e  ''sweet  Coole 
demesne"  has  been  transfigured  in  songs  of  the 
neighbourhood;  and  a  while  ago  an  old  woman 
asking  alms  at  the  door  while  speaking  of  a 
monastery  near  Athenry  broke  into  a  chant  of 
praise  that  has  in  it  perhaps  some  memory  of 
the  Well  of  Healing  at  the  world's  end  that 
helped  the  gods  to  new  strength  in  their  great 
battle  at  Moytura.  "Three  barrels  there  are 
with  water,  and  to  see  the  first  barrel  boiling  it  is 
certain  you  will  get  a  cure.  Water  there  does 
be  rushing  down ;  you  to  stop  you  could  hear  it 
talking ;  to  go  there  you  would  get  cured  of  any- 
thing unless  it  might  be  the  stroke  of  the  Fool." 

VII 

In  translating  these  poems  I  have  chosen  to 
do  so  in  the  speech  of  the  thatched  houses  where 
I  have  heard  and  gathered  them.    An  Craoibhin 


Introduction  17 

had  already  used  this  Gaelic  construction,  these 
Elizabethan  phrases,  in  translating  the  Love 
Songs  of  Connacht,  as  I  have  used  it  even  in  my 
creative  work.  Synge  had  not  yet  used  it  when 
he  found  in  my  Cuchulain  of  Muirthemne  '*the 
dialect  he  had  been  trying  to  master,''  and  of 
which  he  afterwards  made  such  splendid  use. 
Most  of  the  translations  in  this  book  have  al- 
ready been  printed  in  Cuchulain  of  Muirthemne, 
Gods  and  Fighting  Men,  Saints  and  Wonders, 
and  Poets  and  Dreamers.  When  in  the  first 
month  of  the  new  year  I  began  to  choose  from 
among  them,  it  seemed  strange  to  me  that  the 
laments  so  far  outnumbered  any  songs  of  joy. 
But  before  that  month  was  out  news  was 
brought  to  me  that  made  the  keening  of  women 
for  the  brave  and  of  those  who  are  left  lonely 
after  the  young  seem  to  be  but  the  natural  out- 
come and  expression  of  human  life. 

Augusta  Gregory. 

CooLE,  May,  1918. 


Contents 


PAGE 

The  Grief  of  a  Girl's  Heart  .  23 
A    Lament    for    Fair-haired     Donough 

THAT  WAS  Hanged  in  Galway  27 

Raftery's  Praise  of  Mary  Hynes           .  31 

His  Lament  for  O'Daly  ...  34 
His  Praise  of  the  Little  Hill  and  the 

Plains  of  Mayo  .....  37 

His  Lament  for  O'Kelly         ...  39 

His  Vision  of  Death       ....  41 

His  Repentance  .....  43 
His  Answer  when  Some  Stranger  Asked 

WHO  HE  Was         .....  44 

A  Blessing  on  Patrick  Sarsfield  .         .  45 

An  Aran  Maid's  Wedding  ...  48 
A  Poem  Written  in  Time  of  Trouble  by 

AN  Irish  Priest  who  had  Taken  Orders 

IN  France     ......  50 

The  Heart  of  the  Wood  .  •  53 
An  Craoibhin  Complains  because  he  Is 

A  Poet 54 

He  Cries  out  against  Love    ...  56 

He  Meditates  on  the  Life  of  a  Rich  Man  57 

19 


20 


Contents 


Porgaill's  Praise  of  Columcille 

The  Deer's  Cry 

The  Hymn  of  Molling's  Guest,  the  Man 

Full  of  Trouble 
The  Hag  of  Be  are 
The  Seven  Heavens 
The  Journey  of  the  Sun 
The  Nature  of  the  Stars 
The  Call  to  Bran  . 
The  Army  of  the  Sidhe  . 

Credhe's  Complaint  at  the  Battle  of  the 
White  Strand 

A  Sleepy  Song  that  Grania  Used  to  be 
Singing  over  Diarmuid  the  Time  they 
WERE  Wandering  and  Hiding  from  Finn 

Her  Song  to  Rouse  him  from  Sleep 

Her  Lament  for  his  Death    . 

The  Parting  of  Goll  and  his  Wife 

The  Death  of  Osgar       .  .  . 

Oisin's  Vision  .... 

His  Praise  of  Finn 

OlSIN   AFTER   THE    FeNIANS 

The  Foretelling  of  Cathead  the  Druid 

AT  Deirdre's  Birth 
Deirdre's  Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach 
Emer's  Lament  for  Cuchulain 


THE  KILTARTAN  POETRY  BOOK 


The  Grief  of  a  Girl's  Heart 

ODONALL  og,  if  you  go  across  the  sea, 
bring  myself  with  you  and  do  not  for- 
get it ;  and  you  will  have  a  sweetheart 
for  fair  days  and  market  days,  and  the  daughter 
of  the  King  of  Greece  beside  you  at  night.  It 
is  late  last  night  the  dog  was  speaking  of  you ; 
the  snipe  was  speaking  of  you  in  her  deep  marsh. 
It  is  you  are  the  lonely  bird  through  the  woods ; 
and  that  you  may  be  without  a  mate  until  you 
find  me. 

You  promised  me,  and  you  said  a  lie  to  me, 
that  you  would  be  before  me  where  the  sheep 
are  flocked ;  I  gave  a  whistle  and  three  hundred 
cries  to  you,  and  I  found  nothing  there  but  a 
bleating  lamb. 

You  promised  me  a  thing  that  was  hard  for 
23 


24      The  Grief  of  a  Girl's  Heart 

you,  a  ship  of  gold  under  a  silver  mast;  twelve 
towns  with  a  market  in  all  of  them,  and  a  fine 
white  court  by  the  side  of  the  sea. 

You  promised  me  a  thing  that  is  not  possible, 
that  you  would  give  me  gloves  of  the  skin  of  a 
fish ;  that  you  would  give  me  shoes  of  the  skin  of 
a  bird,  and  a  suit  of  the  dearest  silk  in  Ireland. 

O  Donall  og,  it  is  I  would  be  better  to  you 
than  a  high,  proud,  spendthrift  lady:  I  would 
milk  the  cow ;  I  would  bring  help  to  you ;  and  if 
you  were  hard  pressed,  I  would  strike  a  blow 
for  you. 

O,  ochone,  and  it's  not  with  hunger  or  with 
wanting  food,  or  drink,  or  sleep,  that  I  am  grow- 
ing thin,  and  my  life  is  shortened;  but  it  is  the 
love  of  a  young  man  has  withered  me  away. 

It  is  early  in  the  morning  that  I  saw  him 
coming,  going  along  the  road  on  the  back  of  a 
horse ;  he  did  not  come  to  me ;  he  made  nothing 
of  me ;  and  it  is  on  my  way  home  that  I  cried  my 
fill. 

When  I  go  by  myself  to  the  Well  of  Loneliness, 


The  Grief  of  a  Girl's  Heart     25 

I  sit  down  and  I  go  through  my  trouble;  when 
I  see  the  world  and  do  not  see  my  boy,  he  that 
has  an  amber  shade  in  his  hair. 

It  was  on  that  Sunday  I  gave  my  love  to  you ; 
the  Sunday  that  is  last  before  Easter  Sunday. 
And  myself  on  my  knees  reading  the  Passion; 
and  my  two  eyes  giving  love  to  you  for  ever. 

O,  aya!  my  mother,  give  myself  to  him;  and 
give  him  all  that  you  have  in  the  world ;  get  out 
yourself  to  ask  for  alms,  and  do  not  come  back 
and  forward  looking  for  me. 

My  mother  said  to  me  not  to  be  talking  with 
you  to-day,  or  to-morrow,  or  on  the  Sunday ;  it 
was  a  bad  time  she  took  for  telling  me  that;  it 
was  shutting  the  door  after  the  house  was 
robbed. 

My  heart  is  as  black  as  the  blackness  of  the 
sloe,  or  as  the  black  coal  that  is  on  the  smith's 
forge ;  or  as  the  sole  of  a  shoe  left  in  white  halls ; 
it  was  you  put  that  darkness  over  my  life. 

You  have  taken  the  east  from  me;  you  have 
taken  the  west  from  me;  you  have  taken  what 


26      The  Grief  of  a  Girl's  Heart 

is  before  me  and  what  is  behind  me;  you  have 
taken  the  moon,  you  have  taken  the  sun  from 
me;  and  my  fear  is  great  that  you  have  taken 
God  from  me ! 


/I:  Lament  for  FainHaired  Donough 
that  was  Hanged  in  Galway 

IT  was  bound  fast  here  you  saw  him,  and 
wondered  to  see  him, 
Our  fair-haired  Donough,  and  he  after 
being  condemned; 
There  was  a  Uttle  white  cap  on  him  in  place  of 

a  hat, 
And  a  hempen  rope  in  the  place  of  a  neck- 
cloth. 

I  am  after  walking  here  all  through  the  night, 

Like  a  young  lamb  in  a  great  flock  of  sheep ; 

My  breast  open,  my  hair  loosened  out, 

And  how  did  I  find  my  brother  but  stretched 

before  me ! 

27 


28         Jl  Lament  for  lionough 

The  first  place  I  cried  my  fill  was  at  the  top  of 
the  lake ; 

The  second  place  was  at  the  foot  of  the  gal- 
lows; 

The  third  place  was  at  the  head  of  your  dead 
body 

Among  the  Gall,  and  my  own  head  as  if  cut  in 
two. 

If  you  were  with  me  in  the  place  you  had  a  right 

to  be, 
Down  in  Sligo  or  down  in  Ballinrobe, 
It  is  the  gallows  would  be  broken,  it  is  the  rope 

would  be  cut 
And  fair-haired  Donough  going  home  by  the 

path. 

O  fair-haired   Donough,  it  is  not  the  gallows 

was  fit  for  you; 
But  to  be  going  to  the  barn,  to  be  threshing 

out  the  straw ; 


A  Lament  for  Donough         29 

To  be  turning  the  plough  to  the  right  hand  and 
to  the  left, 

To  be  putting  the  red  side  of  the  soil  upper- 
most. 

O  fair-haired  Donough,  O  dear  brother, 

It  is  well  I  know  who  it  was  took  you  away  from 

me; 
Drinking  from  the  cup,  putting  a  light  to  the 

pipe, 
And  walking  in  the  dew  in  the  cover  of  the  night. 

0  Michael  Malley,  O  scourge  of  misfortune ! 
My  brother  was  no  calf  of  a  vagabond  cow; 
But  a  well-shaped  boy  on  a  height  or  a  hillside, 
To  knock  a  low  pleasant  sound  out  of  a  hurling- 

stick. 

And  fair-haired  Donough,  is  not  that  the  pity, 
You  that  would  carry  well  a  spur  or  a  boot ; 

1  would  put  clothes  in  the  fashion  on  you  from 

cloth  that  would  be  lasting ; 
I  would  send  you  out  like  a  gentleman's  son. 


30         Ji  Lament  for  Donough 

O  Michael  Malley,  may  your  sons  never  be  in 
one  another's  company; 

May  your  daughters  never  ask  a  marriage  por- 
tion of  you ; 

The  two  ends  of  the  table  are  empty,  the  house 
is  filled, 

And  fair-haired  Donough,  my  brother,  is 
stretched  out. 

There  is  a  marriage  portion  coming  home  for 

Donough, 
But  it  is  not  cattle  or  sheep  or  horses ; 
But  tobacco  and  pipes  and  white  candles. 
And  it  will  not  be  begrudged  to  them  that  will 

use  it. 


Raftery's  Praise  of  Mary  Hynes 

GOING  to  Mass  by  the  will  of  God,  the 
day  came  wet  and  the  wind  rose ;  I  met 
Mary  Hynes  at  the  cross  of  Kiltar- 
tan,  and  I  fell  in  love  with  her  there  and  then. 
I  spoke  to  her  kind  and  mannerly,  as  by 
report  was  her  own  way ;  and  she  said  ' '  Raf tery 
my  mind  is  easy;  you  may  come  to-day  to 
Ballylee." 

When  I  heard  her  offer  I  did  not  linger;  when 
her  talk  went  to  my  heart  my  heart  rose.  We 
had  only  to  go  across  the  three  fields;  we  had 
daylight  with  us  to  Ballylee. 

The  table  was  laid  with  glasses  and  a  quart 

measure ;  she  had  fair  hair  and  she  sitting  beside 

me ;  and  she  said, ' '  Drink,  Raf  tery ,  and  a  hundred 

welcomes;  there  is  a  strong  cellar  in  Ballylee. '* 

31 


32  llaftery's  Praise  of  Mary  Hynes 

0  star  of  light  and  O  sun  in  harvest ;  O  amber 
hair,  O  my  share  of  the  world !  Will  you  come 
with  me  on  the  Sunday,  till  we  agree  together 
before  all  the  people? 

1  would  not  begrudge  you  a  song  every  Sun- 
day evening ;  punch  on  the  table  or  wine  if  you 
would  drink  it.  But  O  King  of  Glory,  dry  the 
roads  before  me  till  I  find  the  way  to  Ballylee. 

There  is  sweet  air  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  when 
you  are  looking  down  upon  Ballylee;  when  you 
are  walking  in  the  valley  picking  nuts  and  black- 
berries, there  is  music  of  the  birds  in  it  and 
music  of  the  Sidhe. 

What  is  the  worth  of  greatness  till  you  have 
the  light  of  the  flower  of  the  branch  that  is  by 
your  side?  There  is  no  good  to  deny  it  or  to 
try  and  hide  it ;  she  is  the  sun  in  the  heavens  who 
wounded  my  heart. 

There  was  no  part  in  Ireland  I  did  not  travel, 
from  the  rivers  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains ;  to 
the  edge  of  Lough  Greine  whose  mouth  is  hidden, 
and  I  saw  no  beauty  but  was  behind  hers. 


liaftery's  Praise  of  Mary  Hynes  33 

Her  hair  was  shining  and  her  brows  were 
shining  too ;  her  face  was  like  herself,  her  mouth 
pleasant  and  sweet ;  She  is  the  pride  and  I  give 
her  the  branch;  she  is  the  shining  flower  of 
Ballylee. 

It  is  Mary  Hynes,  the  calm  and  easy  woman, 
has  beauty  in  her  mind  and  in  her  face.  If  a 
hundred  clerks  were  gathered  together,  they 
could  not  write  down  a  half  of  her  ways. 


His  Lament  for  O'Daly 

IT  was  Thomas  O'Daly  that  roused  up  young 
people  and  scattered  them,  and  since 
death  played  on  him,  may  God  give  him 
grace.  The  country  is  all  sorrowful,  always 
talking,  since  their  man  of  sport  died  that 
would  win  the  goal  in  all  parts  with  his  music. 
The  swans  on  the  water  are  nine  times  blacker 
than  a  blackberry  since  the  man  died  from  us 
that  had  pleasantness  on  the  top  of  his  fingers. 
His  two  grey  eyes  were  like  the  dew  of  the  morn- 
ing that  lies  on  the  grass.  And  since  he  was  laid 
in  the  grave,  the  cold  is  getting  the  upper  hand. 
If  you  travel  the  five  provinces,  you  would 
not  find  his  equal  for  countenance  or  behaviour, 
for  his  equal  never  walked  on  land  or  grass. 
High  King  of  Nature,  you  who  have  all  powers 

34 


His  Lament  for  O'Dafy         35 

in  yourself,  he  that  wasn't  narrow-hearted,  give 
him  shelter  in  heaven  for  it ! 

He  was  the  beautiful  branch.  In  every  quar- 
ter that  he  ever  knew  he  would  scatter  his  fill 
and  not  gather.  He  would  spend  the  estate  of 
the  Dalys,  their  beer  and  their  wine.  And  that 
he  may  be  sitting  in  the  chair  of  grace,  in  the 
middle  of  Paradise ! 

A  sorrowful  story  on  death,  it's  he  is  the  ugly 
chief  that  did  treachery,  that  didn't  give  him 
credit,  O  strong  God,  for  a  little  time. 

There  are  young  women,  and  not  without 
reason,  sorry  and  heart-broken  and  withered, 
since  he  was  left  at  the  church.  Their  hair 
thrown  down  and  hanging,  turned  grey  on  their 
head. 

No  flower  in  any  garden,  and  the  leaves  of  the 
trees  have  leave  to  cry,  and  they  falling  on  the 
ground.  There  is  no  green  flower  on  the  tops 
of  the  tufts,  since  there  did  a  boarded  coffin  go 
on  Daly. 

There  is  sorrow  on  the  men  of  mirth,  a  cloud- 


36         His  Lament  for  O'Daly 

ing  over  the  day,  and  no  trout  swim  in  the  river. 
Orpheus  on  the  harp,  he  lifted  up  everyone  out 
of  their  habits;  and  he  that  stole  what  Argus 
was  watching  the  time  he  took  away  lo ;  Apollo, 
as  we  read,  gave  them  teaching,  and  Daly  was 
better  than  all  these  musicians. 

A  hundred  wouldn't  be  able  to  put  together 
his  actions  and  his  deeds  and  his  many  good 
works.  And  Raftery  says  this  much  for  Daly, 
because  he  liked  him. 


His  Praise  of  the  Little  Hill  and  the 
Plains  of  Mayo 

AFTER  the  Christmas,  with  the  help  of 
Christ,  I  will  never  stop  if  I  am  alive; 
I  will  go  to  the  sharp-edged  little  hill ; 
for  it  is  a  fine  place  without  fog  falling ;  a  blessed 
place   that   the  sun  shines  on,  and  the  wind 
doesn't  rise  there  or  anything  of  the  sort. 

And  if  you  were  a  year  there  you  would  get 
no  rest,  only  sitting  up  at  night  and  forever 
drinking. 

The  lamb  and  the  sheep  are  there;  the  cow 
and  the  calf  are  there,  fine  lands  are  there  with- 
out heath  and  without  bog.  Ploughing  &  seed- 
sowing  in  the  right  month,  plough  and  harrow 
prepared  and  ready;  the  rent  that  is  called  for 

37 


38     His  Praise  of  the  Little  Hill 

there,  they  have  means  to  pay  it.  There  is  oats 
and  flax  &  large  eared  barley.  There  are  beauti- 
ful valleys  with  good  growth  in  them  and  hay. 
Rods  grow  there,  and  bushes  and  tufts,  white 
fields  are  there  and  respect  for  trees ;  shade  and 
shelter  from  wind  and  rain;  priests  and  friars 
reading  their  book;  spending  and  getting  is 
there,  and  nothing  scarce. 

I  leave  it  in  my  will  that  my  heart  rises  as  the 
wind  rises,  and  as  the  fog  scatters,  when  I  think 
upon  Carra  and  the  two  towns  below  it,  on  the 
two-mile  bush  and  on  the  plains  of  Mayo.  And 
if  I  were  standing  in  the  middle  of  my  people, 
age  would  go  from  me  and  I  would  be  young 
again. 


His  Lament  for  O'ICelly 

THERE'S  no  dew  or  grass  on  Cluan 
Leathan.  The  cuckoo  is  not  to  be 
seen  on  the  furze;  the  leaves  are 
withering  and  the  trees  complaining  of  the  cold. 
There  is  no  sun  or  moon  in  the  air  or  in  the 
sky,  or  no  light  in  the  stars  coming  down,  with 
the  stretching  of  O' Kelly  in  the  grave. 

My  grief  to  tell  it !  he  to  be  laid  low ;  the  man 
that  did  not  bring  grief  or  trouble  on  any  heart, 
that  would  give  help  to  those  that  were  down. 

No  light  on  the  day  Hke  there  was;  the  fruits 
not  growing;  no  children  on  the  breast;  there's 
no  return  in  the  grain;  the  plants  don't  blossom 
as  they  used  since  O' Kelly  with  the  fair  hair 
went  away;  he  that  used  to  forgive  us  a  great 
share  of  the  rent.    Since  the  children  of  Usnach 

39 


40         His  Lament  for  O'lQeUy 

and  Deirdre  went  to  the  grave,  and  Cuchulain, 
who  as  the  stories  tell  us,  would  gain  victory  in 
every  step  he  would  take ;  since  he  died,  such  a 
story  never  came  of  sorrow  or  defeat ;  since  the 
Gael  were  sold  at  Aughrim,  and  since  Owen  Roe 
died,  the  Branch. 


Jiis  Vision  of  Death 

I  HAD  a  vision  in  my  sleep  last  night  be- 
tween sleeping  and  waking.  A  figure 
standing  beside  me,  thin,  miserable,  sad 
and  sorrowful;  the  shadow  of  night  upon  his 
face,  the  tracks  of  the  tears  down  his  cheeks. 
His  ribs  were  bending  like  the  bottom  of  a 
riddle;  his  nose  thin  that  it  would  go  through 
a  cambric  needle;  his  shoulders  hard  and  sharp 
that  they  would  cut  tobacco ;  his  head  dark  and 
bushy  like  the  top  of  a  hill ;  and  there  is  nothing 
I  can  liken  his  fingers  to.  His  poor  bones  with- 
out any  kind  of  covering;  a  withered  rod  in  his 
hand,  and  he  looking  in  my  face.   .   .   . 

Death  is  a  robber  who  heaps  together  kings, 
high  princes  and  country  lords;  he  brings  with 
him  the  great,  the  young,  and  the  wise,  gripping 

41 


42  His  Vision  of  Heath 

them  by  the  throat  before  all  the  people.  Look 
at  him  who  was  yesterday  swift  &  strong,  who 
would  leap  stone  wall,  ditch  and  gap.  Who  was 
in  the  evening  walking  the  street,  and  is  going 
under  the  clay  on  the  morrow. 

It  is  a  pity  for  him  that  is  tempted  with  the 
temptations  of  the  world;  and  the  store  that 
will  go  with  him  is  so  weak,  and  his  lease  of  life 
no  better  if  he  were  to  live  for  a  thousand  years 
than  just  as  if  he  had  slipped  over  on  a  visit  and 
back  again. 

When  you  are  going  to  lie  down  don^t  be 
dumb.  Bare  your  knee  and  bruise  the  ground. 
Think  of  all  the  deeds  that  you  put  by  you,  and 
that  you  are  travelling  towards  the  meadow  of 
the  dead. 


His  Repentance 

OKING  who  art  in  Heaven,  I  scream 
to  Thee  again  and  aloud,  for  it  is  Thy 
grace  I  am  hoping  for. 

I  am  in  age  and  my  shape  is  withered ;  many 
a  day  I  have  been  going  astray.  When  I  was 
young  my  deeds  were  evil ;  I  delighted  greatly  in 
quarrels  and  rows.  I  liked  much  better  to  be 
playing  or  drinking  on  a  Sunday  morning  than 
to  be  going  to  Mass.  I  was  given  to  great  oaths, 
and  I  did  not  let  lust  or  drunkenness  pass  me  by. 

The  day  has  stolen  away  and  I  have  not  raised 
the  hedge,  until  the  crop  in  which  Thou  didst 
take  delight  is  destroyed.  I  am  a  worthless 
stake  in  the  corner  of  a  hedge,  or  I  am  like  a 
boat  that  has  lost  its  rudder,  that  would  be 
broken  against  a  rock  in  the  sea,  and  that  would 
be  drowned  in  the  cold  waves. 


43 


His  Jinswer  when  Some  Stranger 
Asked  who  He  was 

1AM  Raftery  the  poet,  full  of  hope  and 
love;  my  eyes  without  light,  my  gentle- 
ness without  misery.     Going  west  on. my 
journey  with  the  light  of  my  heart ;  weak  and 
tired  to  the  end  of  my  road.     ' 

I  am  now,  and  my  back  to  a  wall,  playing 
music  to  empty  pockets. 


44 


A  Blessing  on  Patrick  Sarsfield 

O  PATRICK  SARSFIELD,  health  be  to 
you,  since  you  went  to  France  and 
your  camps  were  loosened;  making 
your  sighs  along  with  the  king,  and  you  left  poor 
Ireland  and  the  Gael  defeated —  Och  ochone !  O 
Patrick  Sarsfield,  it  is  a  man  with  God  you  are; 
and  blessed  is  the  earth  you  ever  walked  on. 
The  blessing  of  the  bright  sun  and  the  moon 
upon  you,  since  you  took  the  day  from  the 
hands  of  King  William —  Och  ochone ! 

O  Patrick  Sarsfield,  the  prayer  of  every  person 
with  you ;  my  own  prayer  and  the  prayer  of  the 
Son  of  Mary  with  you,  since  you  took  the  narrow 
ford  going  through  Biorra,  and  since  at  Cuilenn 
O'Cuanac  you  won  Limerick — Och  ochone! 

45 


46  Ji  Blessing  on  Patrick  Sarsfield 

I  will  go  up  on  the  mountain  alone ;  and  I  will 
come  hither  from  it  again.  It  is  there  I  saw  the 
camp  of  the  Gael,  the  poor  troop  thinned,  not 
keeping  with  one  another —  Och  ochone ! 

My  five  hundred  healths  to  you,  halls  of 
Limerick,  and  to  the  beautiful  troop  was  in  our 
company;  it  is  bonefires  we  used  to  have  and 
playing-cards,  and  the  word  of  God  was  often 
with  us  —Och  ochone ! 

There  were  many  soldiers  glad  and  happy, 
that  were  going  the  way  through  seven  weeks; 
but  now  they  are  stretched  down  in  Aughrim — 
Och  ochone ! 

They  put  the  first  breaking  on  us  at  the  bridge 
of  the  Boyne;  the  second  breaking  on  the  bridge 
of  Slaine;  the  third  breaking  in  Aughrim  of 
O' Kelly;  and  O  sweet  Ireland,  my  five  hundred 
healths  to  you —  Och  ochone ! 

O'Kelly  has  manuring  for  his  land,  that  is  not 
sand  or  dung,  but  ready  soldiers  doing  bravery 
with  pikes,  that  were  left  in  Aughrim  stretched 
in  ridges —  Och  ochone ! 


A  Blessing  on  Patrick  Sarsfield  47 

Who  is  that  beyond  on  the  hill,  Ben  Edair?  I 
a  poor  soldier  with  King  James.  I  was  last  year 
in  arms  and  in  dress,  but  this  year  I  am  asking 
alms — Och  ochone! 


An  Aran  Maid's  Wedding 

I  AM  widow  and  maid,  and  I  very  young; 
did  you  hear  my  great  grief,   that  my 
treasure  was  drowned  ?     If  I  had  been  in 
the  boat  that  day,  and  my  hand  on  the  rope, 
my  word  to  you,  O'Reilly,  it  is  I  would  have 
saved  you  sorrow. 

Do  you  remember  the  day  the  street  was  full 
of  riders,  and  of  priests  and  brothers,  and  all 
talking  of  the  wedding  feast?  The  fiddle  was 
there  in  the  middle,  and  the  harp  answering  to 
it;  and  twelve  mannerly  women  to  bring  my 
love  to  his  bed. 

But  you  were  of  those  three  that  went  across 
to  Kilcomin,  ferrying  Father  Peter,  who  was 
three-and-eighty  years  old;  if  you  came  back 
within  a  month  itself,  I  would  be  well  content ; 

48 


An  Aran  Maid's  Wedding     49 

but  is  it  not  a  pity  I  to  be  lonely,  and  my  first 
love  in  the  waves  ? 

I  would  not  begrudge  you,  O'Reilly,  to  be 
kinsman  to  a  king;  white  bright  courts  around 
you,  and  you  lying  at  your  ease;  a  quiet,  well- 
learned  lady  to  be  settling  out  your  pillow ;  but 
it  is  a  great  thing  you  to  die  from  me  when  I  had 
given  you  my  love  entirely. 

It  is  no  wonder  a  broken  heart  to  be  with  your 
father  and  your  mother;  the  white-breasted 
mother  that  crooned  you,  and  you  a  baby;  your 
wedded  wife,  O  thousand  treasures,  that  never 
set  out  your  bed;  and  the  day  you  went  to 
Trabawn,  how  well  it  failed  you  to  come  home. 

Your  eyes  are  with  the  eels,  and  your  lips 
with  the  crabs ;  and  your  two  white  hands  under 
the  sharp  rule  of  the  salmon.  Five  pounds  I 
would  give  to  him  that  would  find  my  true  love. 
Ochone!  it  is  you  are  a  sharp  grief  to  young 
Mary  ni-Curtain ! 


A  Poem  Written  in  Time  of  Trouble 
by  an  Irish  Priest  who  Had  Taken 
Orders  in  France 


M 


Y  thoughts,    my  grief!   are  without 

strength 

My    spirit    is   journeying    towards 
death 

My  eyes  are  as  a  frozen  sea 

My  tears  my  daily  food ; 

There  is  nothing  in  hf e  but  only  misery. 

My  poor  heart  is  torn 

And  my  thoughts  are  sharp  wounds  within  me, 

Mourning  the  miserable  state  of  Ireland. 

Misfortune  has  come  upon  us  all  together 

The  poor,  the  rich,  the  weak  and  the  strong 
50 


Poem  Written  by  an  Irish  Priest   51 

The  great  lord  by  whom  hundreds  were  main- 
tained 

The  powerful  strong  man,  and  the  man  that 
holds  the  plough ; 

And  the  cross  laid  on  the  bare  shoulder  of  every 
man. 

Our  feasts  are  without  any  voice  of  priests 
And  none  at  them  but  women  lamenting 
Tearing  their  hair  with  troubled  minds 
Keening  miserably  after  the  Fenians. 

The  pipes  of  our  organs  are  broken 

Our  harps  have  lost   their  strings   that   were 

tuned 
That  might  have  made  the  great  lamentations  of 

Ireland. 
Until  the  strong  men  come  back  across  the  sea 
There  is  no  help  for  us  but  bitter  crying, 
Screams,  and  beating  of  hands,  and  calling  out. 

I  do  not  know  of  anything  under  the  sky 
That  is  friendly  or  favourable  to  the  Gael 


52    Poem  Written  by  an  Irish  Priest 

But  only  the  sea  that  our  need  brings  us  to, 
Or  the  wind  that  blows  to  the  harbour 
The  ship  that  is  bearing  us  away  from  Ireland; 
And  there  is  reason  that  these  are  reconciled 

with  us, 
For  we  increase  the  sea  with  our  tears 
And  the  wandering  wind  with  our  sighs. 


The  Heart  of  the  Wood 

MY  hope  and  my  love,  we  will  go  for  a 
while  into  the  wood,  scattering  the 
dew,  where  we  will  see  the  trout, 
we  will  see  the  blackbird  on  its  nest ;  the  deer 
and  the  buck  calling,  the  little  bird  that  is 
sweetest  singing  on  the  branches ;  the  cuckoo  on 
the  top  of  the  fresh  green ;  and  death  will  never 
come  near  us  for  ever  in  the  sweet  wood. 


53 


^n  Craoibhin  Complains  Because 
He  is  a  Poet 

IT'S  my  grief  that  I  am  not  a  little  white 
duck, 
And  I'd  swim  over  the  sea  to  France  or 
to  Spain; 
I  would  not  stay  in  Ireland  for  one  week  only, 
To  be  without  eating,  without  drinking,  with- 
out a  full  jug. 

Without   a  full   jug,   without   eating,    without 

drinking. 
Without  a  feast  to  get,  without  wine,  without 

meat, 
Without    high    dances,    without    a    big    name, 

without  music ; 

There  is  hunger  on  me,  and  I  astray  this  long 

time. 

54 


Jin  Craoibhin  Complains        55 

It's  my  grief  that  I  am  not  an  old  crow; 
I  would  sit  for  awhile  up  on  the  old  branch ; 
I  could  satisfy  my  hunger,  and  I  not  as  I  am 
With  a  grain  of  oats  or  a  white  potato. 

It's  my  grief  that  I  am  not  a  red  fox, 
Leaping  strong  and  swift  on  the  mountains. 
Eating  cocks  and  hens  without  pity, 
Taking  ducks  and  geese  as  a  conquerer. 

It's  my  grief  that  I  am  not  a  bright  salmon. 
Going  through  the  strong  full  water, 
Catching  the  mayflies  by  my  craft. 
Swimming  at  my  choice,  and  swimming  with 
the  stream. 

It's  my  grief  that  I  am  of  the  race  of  the  poets ; 
It  would  be  better  for  me  to  be  a  high  rock. 
Or  a  stone  or  a  tree  or  an  herb  or  a  flower 
Or  anything  at  all  but  the  thing  that  I  am ! 


He  Cries  Out  Jlgainst  Love 

THERE    are  three  fine  devils  eating  my 
heart — 
They  left  me,  my  grief !  without  a  thing ; 
Sickness  wrought,  and  Love  wrought. 
And  an  empty  pocket,  my  ruin  and  my  woe. 
Povert}^  left  me  without  a  shirt, 
Barefooted,  barelegged,  without  any  covering; 
Sickness  left  me  with  my  head  weak 
And  my  body  miserable,  an  ugly  thing. 
Love  left  me  like  a  coal  upon  the  floor, 
Like  a  half -burned  sod  that  is  never  put  out. 
Worse  than  the  cough,  worse  than  the    fever 

itself, 
Worse  than  any  curse  at  all  under  the  sun, 
Worse  than  the  great  poverty 
Is  the  devil  that  is  called  ''Love''  by  the  people. 
And  if  I  were  in  my  young  youth  again 
I  would  not  take,  or  give,  or  ask  for  a  kiss ! 


56 


He  Meditates  on  the  Life  of  a 
l^ich  Man 


A 


GOLDEN  cradle  under  you,  and  you 

young; 
A  right  mother  and  a  strong  kiss. 


A  lively  horse,  and  you  a  boy ; 

A  school  and  learning  and  close  companions. 

A  beautiful  wife,  and  you  a  man; 

A  wide  house  and  everything  that  is  good. 

A  fine  wife,  children,  substance; 
Cattle,  means,  herds  and  flocks. 

A  place  to  sit,  a  place  to  lie  down; 

Plenty  of  food  and  plenty  of  drink. 
57 


58   Meditates  on  a  Rich  Man's  Life 

After  that,  an  old  man  among  old  men ; 
Respect  on  you  and  honour  on  you. 

Head  of  the  court,  of  the  jury,  of  the  meeting, 
And  the  counsellors  not  the  worse  for  having 
you. 

At  the  end  of  your  days  death,  and  then 
Hiding  away;  the  boards  and  the  church. 

What  are  you  better  after  to-night 
Than  Ned  the  beggar  or  Seaghan  the  fool  ? 


ForgailVs  Praise  of  Columcille 

THIS  now  is  the  poem  of  praise  and  of 
lamentation  that  was  made  for  Colum- 
cille, Speckled  Salmon  of  the  Boyne, 
High  Saint  of  the  Gael,  by  Forgaill  that  was 
afterwards  called  Blind  Forgaill,  Chief  Poet  of 
Ireland : 

It  is  not  a  little  story  this  is ;  it  is  not  a  story 
about  a  fool  it  is;  it  is  not  one  district  that  is 
keening  but  every  district,  with  a  great  sound 
that  is  not  to  be  borne,  hearing  the  story  of 
Columcille,  without  life,  without  a  church. 

It  is  not  the  trouble  of  one  house,  or  the  grief 
of  one  harp-string;  all  the  plains  are  heavy, 
hearing  the  word  that  is  a  wound. 

What  way  will  a  simple  man  tell  of  him? 
Even  Nera  from  the  Sidhe  could  not  do  it ;  he  is 

59 


6o  ForgaiWs  Praise  of  Columcille 

not  made  much  of  now;  our  learned  one  is  not 
the  light  of  our  life,  now  he  is  hidden  away  from 
us. 

He  that  used  to  keep  us  living  is  dead ;  he  that 
was  our  rightful  head  has  died  from  us;  he  has 
died  from  us  that  was  God's  messenger. 

The  knowledgeable  man  that  used  to  put  fear 
from  us  is  not  here;  the  teller  of  words  does  not 
return  to  us;  the  teacher  is  gone  from  us  that 
taught  silence  to  the  people. 

The  whole  world  was  his ;  it  is  a  harp  without 
its  strings ;  it  is  a  church  without  its  abbot. 

Colum  rose  very  high  the  time  God's  com- 
panies rose  to  meet  him;  it  is  bright  the  angels 
were,  attending  on  him. 

It  is  short  his  life  was,  it  is  little  used  to 
satisfy  him;  when  the  wind  blew  the  sheet 
against  him  on  the  sand,  the  shape  of  his  ribs 
could  be  seen  through  it.  He  was  the  head  of 
every  gathering ;  he  was  a  dun  of  the  book  of 
the  law;  he  put  a  flame  in  the  district  of  the 
north,  he  lightened  the  district  of  the  west ;  the 


ForgailVs  Praise  of  Columcille  6i 

east  was  his  along  with  it;  he  did  not  open  his 
heart  to  every  company.  Good  his  death;  he 
went  with  God's  angels  that  came  to  meet  him. 

He  has  reached  to  Axal  of  his  help  and  to  the 
troops  of  the  archangels;  he  has  reached  to  a 
place  where  night  is  not  seen ;  he  has  reached  to  a 
plain  where  music  has  not  to  be  born ;  where  no 
one  listens  to  oppression.  The  King  of  priests 
has  done  away  with  his  troubles. 

He  knew  the  way  he  was  going ;  he  gave  kind- 
ness for  hatred ;  he  learned  psalms ;  he  broke  the 
battle  against  hunger. 

He  knew  seasons  and  storms;  he  read  the 
secrets  of  the  great  wisdom ;  he  knew  the  course 
of  the  moon ;  he  took  notice  of  its  race  with  the 
branching  sun.  He  was  skilful  in  the  course  of 
the  sea;  to  tell  every  high  thing  we  have  heard 
from  Colum,  would  be  to  count  the  stars  of 
heaven. 

A  healer  of  the  heart  of  the  wise;  a  full  satisfier 
of  guests;  our  crowned  one  who  spoke  with 
Axal;  a  shelter  to  the  naked;  a  comforter  to  the 


62  ForgailVs  Praise  of  Columcille 

poor;  he  was  eager,  he  was  noble,  it  is  high  his 
death  was.  We  hope  great  honour  will  be  given 
to  him  on  the  head  of  these  deeds. 

And  when  Forgaill  had  made  that  lament  he 
said,  *'It  is  a  great  shaping  and  a  great  finish  I 
have  given  to  these  words,  and  I  cannot  make  a 
praise  beyond  this,  for  my  eyes  have  been  taken 
from  me.'' 

It  was  Aodh,  King  of  Ireland  gave  seven 
cumhals  for  his  name  to  be  given  in  the  praising 
of  Columcille;  and  Aodh  laid  it  down  to  Forgaill 
that  this  song  should  be  above  every  other  song. 

But  it  was  after  death  the  reward  and  the 
praise  were  given  to  blind  Forgaill  for  it  was 
Heaven  that  was  given  to  him  as  the  price  of  the 
praising  of  the  King. 


The  Beer's  Cry 

BLESSED  Patrick  made  this  hymn  one 
time  he  was  going  to  preach  the  Faith 
at  Teamhuir,  and  his  enemies  lay  in 
hiding  to  make  an  attack  on  him  as  he  passed. 
But  all  they  could  see  passing  as  he  himself  and 
Benen  his  servant  went  by,  was  a  wild  deer  and 
a  fawn.  And  the  Deer's  Cry  is  the  name  of  the 
hymn  to  this  day. 

I  bind  myself  to-day  to  a  strong  strength,  to  a 
calling  on  the  Trinity.  I  believe  in  a  Threeness 
with  confession  of  a  Oneness  in  the  Creator  of 
the  World. 

I   bind   myself   to-day   to    the  strength   of 

Christ's  birth  and  His  baptism;  to  the  strength 

of  His  crucifixion  with  His  burial ;  to  the  strength 

of  His  resurrection  with  His  ascension; 
63 


64  The  Beer's  Cry 

In  stability  of  earth,  in  steadfastness  of  rock, 
I  bind  to  myself  to-day  God's  strength  to  pilot 
me; 

God's  power  to  uphold  me;  God's  wisdom  to 
guide  me;  God's  eye  to  look  before  me;  God's 
ear  to  hear  me; 

God's  word  to  speak  for  me;  God's  hand  to 
guard  me;  God's  path  to  lie  before  me;  God's 
shield  to  protect  me;  God's  host  to  save  me; 

Against  snares  of  demons ;  against  the  begging 
of  sins ;  against  the  asking  of  nature ;  against  all 
my  ill-wishers  near  me  and  far  from  me;  alone 
and  in  a  crowd. 

So  I  have  called  on  all  these  strengths  to  come 
between  me  and  every  fierce  and  merciless 
strength  that  may  come  between  my  body  and 
my  soul ; 

Against  incantations  of  false  prophets ;  against 
black  laws  of  heathens;  against  false  laws  of 
heretics ;  against  craft  of  idolatry ;  against  spells 
of  women  &  smiths  and  druids;  against  every 
knowledge  forbidden  to  the  souls  of  men. 


The  Beer's  Cry  65 

Christ  for  my  protection  to-day  against 
poison,  against  burning,  against  drowning, 
against  wounding;  that  a  multitude  of  rewards 
may  come  to  me.  Christ  with  me,  Christ  before 
me;  Christ  behind  me,  Christ  in  me;  Christ 
under  me,  Christ  over  me ;  Christ  to  the  right  of 
me,  Christ  to  the  left  of  me;  Christ  in  lying 
down,  Christ  in  sitting,  Christ  in  rising  up; 

Christ  in  the  heart  of  everyone  that  thinks  of 
me ;  Christ  in  the  mouth  of  everyone  that  speaks 
to  me;  Christ  in  every  eye  that  sees  me;  Christ 
in  every  ear  that  hears  me. 

I  bind  to  myself  to-day  a  strong  strength  to  a 
calling  upon  the  Trinity ;  I  believe  in  a  Threeness 
with  confession  of  a  Oneness  in  the  Creator  of 
the  World. 


The  Hymn  of  Molling's  Guest, 
The  Man  full  of  Trouble 

HE  is  clean  gold,  he  is  Heaven  about  the 
sun,  he  is  a  silver  vessel  having  wine 
in  it;  he  is  an  angel,  he  is  the  wis- 
dom of  saints ;  everyone  that  is  doing  the  will 
of  the  King. 

He  is  a  bird  with  a  trap  closing  about  him; 
he  is  a  broken  ship  in  great  danger;  he  is  an 
empty  vessel,  he  is  a  withered  tree;  he  that  is 
not  doing  the  will  of  the  King. 

He  is  a  sweet-smelling  branch  with  its 
blossoms;  he  is  a  vessel  that  is  full  of  honey;  he 
is  a  shining  stone  of  good  luck ;  he  who  does  the 
will  of  the  Son  of  God  of  Heaven. 

He  is  a  blind  nut  without  profit;  he  is  ill- 

66 


The  Hymn  of  Molling's  Guest  67 

smelling  rottenness,  he  is  a  withered  tree ;  he  is 
a  wild  apple  branch  without  blossom ;  he  that  is 
not  doing  the  will  of  the  King. 

If  he  does  the  will  of  the  Son  of  God  of  Heaven, 
he  is  a  bright  sun  with  summer  about  it;  he  is 
the  image  of  the  God  of  Heaven;  he  is  a  vessel 
of  clear  glass. 

He  is  a  racehorse  over  a  smooth  plain,  the 
man  that  is  striving  for  the  kingdom  of  the  great 
God;  he  is  a  chariot  that  is  seen  under  a  king, 
that  wins  the  victory  with  golden  bridles. 

He  is  a  sun  that  warms  high  heaven ;  the  king 
to  whom  the  great  King  is  thankful;  he  is  a 
church,  joyful,  noble;  he  is  a  shrine  having  gold 
about  it. 

He  is  an  altar  having  wine  poured  upon  it; 
having  many  quires  singing  around;  he  is  a 
clean  chalice  with  ale  in  it ;  he  is  bronze,  white, 
shining,  he  is  gold. 


The  Hag  of  Bears 

IT  is  of  Corca  Dubhne  she  was,  and  she  had 
her  youth  seven  times  over,  and  every 
man  that  had  lived  with  her  died  of  old 
age,  and  her  grandsons  and  great-grandsons  were 
tribes  and  races.  And  through  a  hundred  years 
she  wore  upon  her  head  the  veil  Cuimire  had 
blessed.  Then  age  and  weakness  came  upon 
her  and  it  is  what  she  said : 

Ebb-tide  to  me  as  to  the  sea;  old  age  brings 
me  reproach;  I  used  to  wear  a  shift  that  was 
always  new;  to-day,  I  have  not  even  a  cast 
one. 

It  is  riches  you  are  loving,  it  is  not  men; 
it  was  men  we  loved  in  the  time  we  were 
living. 

There  were  dear  men  on  whose  plains  w;e  used 

68 


The  Hag  of  Beare  69 

to  be  driving ;  it  is  good  the  time  we  passed  with 
them;  it  is  httle  we  were  broken  afterwards. 

When  my  arms  are  seen  it  is  long  and  thin 
they  are;  once  they  used  to  be  fondling,  they 
used  to  be  around  great  kings. 

The  young  girls  give  a  welcome  to  Beltaine 
when  it  comes  to  them;  sorrow  is  more  fitting 
for  me;  an  old  pitiful  hag. 

I  have  no  pleasant  talk;  no  sheep  are  killed 
for  my  wedding ;  it  is  little  but  my  hair  is  grey ; 
it  is  many  colours  I  had  over  it  when  I  used  to 
be  drinking  good  ale. 

I  have  no  envy  against  the  old,  but  only 
against  women;  I  myself  am  spent  with  old 
age,  while  women's  heads  are  still  yellow. 

The  stone  of  the  kings  on  Feman ;  the  chair  of 
Ronan  in  Bregia;  it  is  long  since  storms  have 
wrecked  them,  they  are  old  mouldering  grave- 
stones. 

The  wave  of  the  great  sea  is  speaking;  the 
winter  is  striking  us  with  it;  I  do  not  look  to 
welcome  to-day  Fermuid  son  of  Mugh. 


70  The  Hag  of  Beare 

I  know  what  they  are  doing ;  they  are  rowing 
through  the  reeds  of  the  ford  of  Alma ;  it  is  cold 
is  the  place  where  they  sleep. 

The  summer  of  youth  where  we  were  has  been 
spent  along  with  its  harvest;  winter  age  that 
drowns  everyone,  its  beginning  has  come  upon 
me. 

It  is  beautiful  was  my  green  cloak,  my  king 
liked  to  see  it  on  me;  it  is  noble  was  the  man 
that  stirred  it,  he  put  wool  on  it  when  it  was 
bare. 

Amen,  great  is  the  pity;  every  acorn  has  to 
drop.  After  feasting  with  shining  candles,  to  be 
in  the  darkness  of  a  prayer-house. 

I  was  once  living  with  kings,  drinking  mead 
and  wine;  to-day  I  am  drinking  whey-water 
among  withered  old  women. 

There  are  three  floods  that  come  up  to  the 
dun  of  Ard-Ruide:  a  flood  of  fighting-men,  a 
flood  of  horses,  a  flood  of  the  hounds  of  Lu- 
gaidh^s  son. 

The  flood-wave  and  the  two  swift  ebb-tides; 


The  Hag  of  Beare  71 

what  the  flood- wave  brings  you  in,  the  ebb- 
wave  sweeps  out  of  your  hand. 

The  flood- wave  and  the  second  ebb-tide;  they 
have  all  come  as  far  as  me,  the  way  that  I  know 
them  well. 

The  flood-tide  will  not  reach  to  the  silence  of 
my  kitchen;  though  many  are  my  company  in 
the  darkness,  a  hand  has  been  laid  upon  them 
all. 

My  flood-tide!  It  is  well  I  have  kept  my 
knowledge.  It  is  Jesus  Son  of  Mary  keeps  me 
happy  at  the  ebb-tide. 

It  is  far  is  the  island  of  the  great  sea  where  the 
flood  reaches  after  the  ebb:  I  do  not  look  for 
floods  to  reach  to  me  after  the  ebb-tide. 

There  is  hardly  a  little  place  I  can  know  again 
when  I  see  it ;  what  used  to  be  on  the  flood-tide 
is  all  on  the  ebb  to-day! 


Some  of  the  Wonders  told  at  the 
Great  Gathering  in  the  East  of 
the  World  by  the  Voice  of  Philip 
the  Apostle,  that  was  like  the 
Laughter  of  an  Army,  and  with 
that  no  louder  than  the  Talk  of 
Friend  in  the  Ear  of  Friend; 

I.     The  Seven  Heavens 

AS  to  the  Seven  Heavens  that  are  around 
the  earth,  the  first  of  them  is  the  bright 
cloudy  heaven  that  is  the  nearest  and 
that  has  shining  out  of  it  the  moon  and  the 
scattering  of  stars.  Beyond  that  are  two  flaming 
heavens,  angels  are  in  them  and  the  break- 
ing  loose  of  winds.     Beyond  those  an  ice-cold 

heaven,  bluer  than  any  blue,  seven  times  colder 

72 


The  Journey  of  the  Sun         73 

than  any  snow,  and  it  is  out  of  that  comes  the 
shining  of  the  sun.  Two  heavens  there  are 
above  that  again,  bright  like  flame,  and  it  is  out 
of  them  shine  the  fiery  stars  that  put  fruitfulness 
in  the  clouds  and  in  the  sea.  A  high  heaven, 
high  and  fiery,  there  is  above  all  the  rest ;  highest 
of  all  it  is,  having  within  it  the  rolling  of  the 
skies,  and  the  labour  of  music,  and  quires  of 
angels.  In  the  belts,  now,  of  the  seven  heavens 
are  hidden  the  twelve  shaking  beasts  that  have 
fiery  heads  upon  their  heavenly  bodies  and  that 
are  blowing  twelve  winds  about  the  world. 

In  the  same  belts  are  sleeping  the  dragons 
with  fiery  breath,  tower-headed,  blemished,  that 
give  out  the  crash  of  the  thunders  and  blow 
lightnings  out  of  their  eyes. 

//.     The  Journey  of  the  Sun 

God  made  on  the  fourth  day  the  two  and 
seventy  kinds  of  the  wandering  stars  of  heaven, 
and  the  fiery  course  of  the  sun  that  warms  the 
world  with  the  sense  and  the  splendour  of  angels. 


74         The  Journey  of  the  Sun 

Twelve  plains  there  are  under  the  body  of  the 
earth  he  lightens  every  night;  the  fiery  sea 
laughs  against  his  journey ;  ranks  of  angels  come 
together,  welcoming  his  visit  after  the  bright- 
ness of  the  night.  The  first  place  he  brightens  is 
the  stream  beyond  the  seas,  with  news  of  the 
eastern  waters.  Then  he  lightens  the  ocean  of 
fire  and  the  seas  of  sulphur-fire  that  are  round 
about  the  red  countries. 

Then  he  shines  upon  the  troops  of  boys  in  the 
pleasant  fields,  who  send  out  their  cry  to  heaven 
through  dread  of  the  beast  that  kills  thousands 
of  armies  under  the  waves  of  the  south.  Then 
he  shines  upon  the  mountains  that  have  streams 
of  fire,  on  the  hosts  that  protect  them  in  the 
plains.  Then  the  ribs  of  the  great  beast  shine, 
and  the  four  and  twenty  champions  rise  up  in 
the  valley  of  pain.  He  shines  over  against  the 
terrible  many-thronged  fence  in  the  north  that 
has  closed  around  the  people  of  hell.  He  shines 
on  the  dark  valleys  having  sorrowful  streams 
over  their  faces.     He  brightens  the  ribs  of  the 


The  Nature  of  the  Stars         75 

beast  that  sends  out  the  many  seas  around  the 
earth ;  that  sucks  in  again  the  many  seas  till  the 
sands  on  every  side  are  dry.  He  shines  upon 
the  many  beasts  that  sleep  their  sleep  of  tears 
in  the  valley  of  flowers  from  the  first  beginning 
of  the  world;  and  on  the  sorrowful  tearful  plain, 
with  the  dragons  that  were  set  under  the  mist. 
He  shines  then  upon  the  bird-flocks  singing 
their  many  tunes  in  the  flower- valleys ;  upon  the 
shining  plains  with  the  wine-flowers  that  lighten 
the  valley ;  he  shines  at  the  last  against  Adam's 
Paradise  till  he  rises  up  in  the  morning  from  the 
east.  There  would  be  many  stories  now  for  the 
sun  to  tell  upon  his  journey,  if  he  had  but  a 
tongue  to  give  them  out. 

///.     The  Nature  of  the  Stars 

The  stars  now  differ  in  their  nature  from  one 
another.  As  to  the  ten  stars  of  Gaburn,  trembl- 
ing takes  hold  of  them,  and  fiery  manes  are  put 
over  their  faces,  to  foretell  a  plague  or  a  death 
of  the  people.     Other  stars  there  are  that  bring 


76         The  Nature  of  the  Stars 

great  heat  or  great  cold  or  great  mists  upon 
the  earth,  others  there  are  that  run  to  en- 
courage the  dragons  that  blow  lightnings  on 
the  world;  others  of  them  run  to  the  end  of 
fifty  years  and  then  ask  their  time  for  sleep- 
ing. To  the  end  of  seven  years  they  sleep  till 
they  awake  at  the  shout  of  the  blessed  angels, 
and  the  voices  of  the  dragons  of  the  valley. 
Other  runs  through  the  six  days  and  the  six 
nights  till  the  coming  of  the  Sunday;  at  its 
beginning  they  begin  their  many  kinds  of  music, 
and  they  fall  asleep  again  till  the  coming  again 
from  heaven  of  God's  Sunday,  and  with  that 
they  follow  the  same  round. 


The  Call  to  Bran 

ONE  time  Bran,  son  of  Febal,  was  out 
by  himself  near  his  dun,  and  he  heard 
music  behind  him.  And  it  kept  always 
after  him,  and  at  last  he  fell  asleep  with  the 
sweetness  of  the  sound.  And  when  he  awoke 
from  his  sleep  he  saw  beside  him  a  branch  of 
silver,  and  it  having  white  blossoms,  and  the 
whiteness  of  the  silver  was  the  same  as  the 
whiteness  of  the  blossoms.  And  he  brought 
the  branch  in  his  hand  into  the  royal  house,  and 
when  all  his  people  were  with  him  they  saw  a 
woman  with  strange  clothing  standing  in  the 
house.  And  she  began  to  make  a  song  for  Bran, 
and  all  the  people  were  looking  at  her  and  listen- 
ing to  her,  and  it  is  what  she  said :  I  bring  a 
branch  of  the  apple-tree  from  Emhain,  from  the 

77 


78  The  Call  to  Bran 

far  island  around  which  are  the  shining  horses  of 
the  Son  of  Lir.  A  deUght  of  the  eyes  is  the  plain 
where  the  hosts  hold  their  games:  curragh 
racing  against  chariot  in  the  Silver- White  Plain 
to  the  south. 

There  are  feet  of  white  bronze  under  it, 
shining  through  life  and  time;  a  comely  level 
land  through  the  length  of  the  world's  age,  and 
many  blossoms  falling  on  it. 

There  is  an  old  tree  there  with  blossoms,  and 
birds  calling  from  among  them;  every  colour  is 
shining  there.  Delight  is  common,  and  music 
in  the  Gentle  Voiced  Plain,  in  the  Silver  Cloud 
Plain  to  the  south.  There  is  nothing  hard  or 
rough,  but  sweet  music  striking  on  the  ear; 
keening  is  not  used,  or  treachery,  in  the  tilled 
familiar  land. 

To  be  without  grief,  without  sorrow,  without 
death,  without  any  sickness,  without  weakness; 
that  is  the  sign  of  Emhain;  it  is  not  a  common 
wonder  that  is. 

There  is  nothing  to  liken  its  mists  to,  the  sea 


The  Call  to  Bran  79 

washes  the  wave  against  the  land;  brightness 
falls  from  its  hair. 

Golden  chariots  in  the  Plain  of  the  Sea,  rising 
up  to  the  sun  with  the  tide;  silver  chariots  and 
bronze  chariots  on  the  Plain  of  Sports. 

It  is  a  day  of  lasting  weather,  silver  is  drop- 
ping on  the  land ;  a  pure  white  cliff  on  the  edge 
of  the  sea,  getting  its  warmth  from  the  sun. 

The  host  race  over  the  Plain  of  Sports;  it  is 
beautiful  and  not  weak  their  game  is ;  death  or 
the  ebbing  of  the  tide  will  not  come  to  them  in 
the  Many-coloured  Land. 

There  will  come  at  sunrise  a  fair  man,  light- 
ing up  the  level  lands;  he  rides  upon  the  plain 
that  is  beaten  by  the  waves,  he  stirs  the  sea  till 
it  is  like  blood.  An  army  will  come  over  the 
clear  sea,  rowing  to  the  stone  that  is  in  sight, 
that  has  a  hundred  sounds  of  music. 

It  sings  a  song  to  the  army;  it  is  not  sad 
through  the  length  of  time;  it  increases  music 
with  hundreds  singing  together;  they  do  not 
look  for  death  or  the  ebb-tide. 


The  Jhrmy  of  the  Sidhe 

LAEGAIRE,  son  of  the  king  of  Con- 
nacht,  was  out  one  day  with  the  king 
his  father  near  Loch  na-n  Ean,  the 
Lake  of  Birds,  and  the  men  of  Connacht  with 
them,  and  they  saw  a  man  coming  to  them 
through  the  mist.  Long  golden-yellow  hair  he 
had,  and  at  his  belt  a  gold-hilted  sword,  and  in 
his  hand  two  five-barbed  darts ;  a  gold-rimmed 
shield  on  his  back,  a  five-folded  crimson  cloak 
about  his  shoulders,  and  it  is  what  he  said: 

The  most  beautiful  of  plains  is  the  Plain  of 
the  Two  Mists ;  it  is  not  far  from  this ;  the  men 
of  its  army  in  good  order  go  out  ahead  of  their 
beautiful  king;  they  march  among  blue  spears, 
white  troops  of  fighters  with  curled  hair. 

They  scatter  the  troops  of  their  enemies,  they 
80 


The  Army  of  the  Sidhe  8i 

destroy  every  country  they  make  an  attack  on ; 
they  are  beautiful  in  battle,  a  host  with  high 
looks,  rushing,  avenging. 

It  is  no  wonder  they  to  have  such  strength 
every  one  of  them  is  the  son  of  a  king  and  a 
queen ;  manes  of  hair  they  have  of  the  colour  of 
gold. 

Their  bodies  smooth  and  comely;  their  eyes 
blue  and  far-seeing ;  their  teeth  bright  like  crys- 
tal within  their  thin  red  lips. 

White  shields  they  have  in  their  hands,  with 
patterns  on  them  of  white  silver;  blue  shining 
swords,  red  horns  set  with  gold.  They  are  good 
at  killing  men  in  battle;  good  at  song-making, 
good  at  chess-playing. 

The  most  beautiful  of  plains  is  the  Plain  of  the 
Two  Mists ;  it  is  not  far  from  this  place. 

6 


Credhe's  Complaint  at  the  Battle 
of  the  White  Strand 

AND  Credhe  came  to  where  her  man  was, 
and  she  keened  him  and  cried  over 
him,  and  she  made  this  complaint  : 
The  Harbour  roars,  O  the  harbour  roars  over 
the  rushing  race  of  the  Headland  of  the  Two 
Storms,  the  drowning  of  the  hero  of  the  Lake  of 
the  Two  Dogs,  that  is  what  the  waves  are  keen- 
ing on  the  strand. 

Sweet-voiced  is  the  crane,  O  sweet-voiced  is 
the  crane  in  the  marshes  of  the  Ridge  of  the 
Two  Strong  Men ;  it  is  she  cannot  save  her  nest- 
lings, the  wild  dog  of  two  colours  is  taking  her 
little  ones. 

Pitiful  the  cry,  pitiful  the  cry  the  thrush  is 
82 


Credhe's  Complaint  83 

making  in  the  Pleasant  Ridge;  sorrowful  is  the 
cry  of  the  blackbird  in  Leiter  Laeig. 

Sorrowful  the  call,  O  sorrowful  the  call  of  the 
deer  in  the  Ridge  of  Two  Lights;  the  doe  is 
lying  dead  in  Druim  Silenn,  the  mighty  stag 
cries  after  her. 

Sorrowful  to  me,  O  sorrowful  to  me  the  death 
of  the  hero  that  lay  beside  me;  the  son  of  the 
woman  of  the  Wood  of  the  Two  Thickets,  to  be 
with  a  bunch  of  grass  under  his  head. 

Sore  to  me,  O  sore  to  me  Gael  to  be  a  dead 
man  beside  me,  the  waves  to  have  gone  over  his 
white  body;  it  is  his  pleasantness  that  has  put 
my  wits  astray. 

A  woeful  shout,  O  a  woeful  shout  the  waves 
are  making  on  the  strand ;  they  that  took  hold  of 
comely  Gael,  a  pity  it  is  he  went  to  meet  them. 

A  woeful  crash,  O  a  woeful  crash  the  waves 
are  making  on  the  strand  to  the  north,  breaking 
against  the  smooth  rock,  crying  after  Gael  now 
he  is  gone. 

A  sorrowful  fight,  O  a  sorrowful  fight,  the  sea 


84  Credhe's  Complaint 

is  making  with  the  strand  to  the  north;  my 
beauty  is  lessened ;  the  end  of  my  life  is  measured. 

A  song  of  grief,  O  a  song  of  grief  is  made  by 
the  waves  of  Tulcha  Leis ;  all  I  had  is  gone  since 
this  story  came  to  me.  Since  the  son  of  Crim- 
thann  is  drowned  I  will  love  no  one  after  him 
for  ever;  many  a  king  fell  by  his  hand;  his  shield 
never  cried  out  in  the  battle. 

After  she  had  made  that  complaint  Credhe 
laid  herself  down  beside  Gael  and  died  for  grief 
after  him.  And  they  were  put  in  the  one  grave, 
and  it  was  Caoilte  raised  the  stone  over  them. 


Jl:  Sleepy  Song  that  Grania  used  to 
be  singing  over  Diarmuid  the 
Time  they  were  wandering  and 
hiding  from  Finn 

SLEEP  a  little,  a  little  little,  for  there  is 
nothing  at  all  to  fear,  Diarmuid  grandson 
of  Duibhne;  sleep  here  soundly,  Diar- 
muid to  whom  I  have  given  my  love.  It  is  I 
will  keep  watch  for  you,  grandchild  of  shapely 
Duibhne;  sleep  a  little,  a  blessing  on  you,  beside 
the  well  of  the  strong  field ;  my  lamb  from  above 
the  lake,  from  the  banks  of  the  strong  streams. 

Let  your  sleep  be  like  the  sleep  in  the  North  of 
fair  comely  Fionnchadh  of  Ess  Ruadh,  the  time 
he  took  Slaine  with  bravery  as  we  think,  in  spite 

of  Failbhe  of  the  Hard  Head. 

85 


86  Crania's  Sleepy  Song 

Let  your  sleep  be  like  the  sleep  in  the  West  of 
Aine  daughter  of  Galian,  the  time  she  went  on  a 
journey  in  the  night  with  Dubhthach  from 
Dorinis,  by  the  light  of  torches. 

Let  your  sleep  be  like  the  sleep  in  the  East  of 
Deaghadh  the  proud,  the  brave  fighter,  the  time 
he  took  Coincheann,  daughter  of  Binn,  in  spite 
of  fierce  Decheall  of  Duibhreann. 

O  heart  of  the  valour  of  the  world  to  the  west 
of  Greece,  my  heart  will  go  near  to  breaking  if  I 
do  not  see  you  every  day.  The  parting  of  us 
two  will  be  the  parting  of  two  children  of  the 
one  house;  it  will  be  the  parting  of  life  from  the 
body,  Diarmuid. 


Her  Song  to  lipase  Him  from  Sleep 

THE  stag  to  the  east  is  not  asleep,  he  does 
not  stop  from  bellowing;  though  he  is 
in  the  woods  of  the  blackbirds,  sleep  is 
not  in  his  mind ;  the  hornless  doe  is  not  asleep, 
crying  after  her  speckled  fawn ;  she  is  going  over 
the  bushes,  she  does  not  sleep  in  her  home. 

The  cuckoo  is  not  asleep,  the  thrush  is  not 
asleep,  the  tops  of  the  trees  are  a  noisy  place; 
the  duck  is  not  asleep,  she  is  made  ready  for 
good  swimming;  the  bog-lark  is  not  asleep  to- 
night on  the  high  stormy  bogs ;  the  sound  of  her 
clear  voice  is  sweet ;  she  is  not  sleeping  between 
the  streams. 


87 


Her  Lament  for  His  Heath 

THEN  when  Grania  was  certain  of  Diar- 
muid's  death  she  gave  out  a  long  very 
pitiful  cry  that  was  heard  through  the 
whole  place,  and  her  women  and  her  people 
came  to  her,  and  asked  what  ailed  her  to  give 
a  cry  like  that.  And  she  told  them  how  Diar- 
muid  had  come  to  his  death  by  the  Boar  of  Beinn 
Gulbain  in  the  hunt  Finn  had  made.  When  her 
people  heard  that,  they  gave  three  great  heavy 
cries  in  the  same  way,  that  were  heard  in  the 
clouds  and  the  waste  places  of  the  sky.  And 
then  Grania  bade  the  five  hundred  that  she  had 
for  household  to  go  to  Beinn  Gulbain  for  the 
body  of  Diarmuid,  and  when  they  were  bringing 
it  back,  she  went  out  to  meet  them,  and  they 
put  down  the  body  of  Diarmuid,  and  it  is  what 


Her  Lament  for  His  Death       89 

she  said:  I  am  your  wife,  beautiful  Diarmuid, 
the  man  I  would  do  no  hurt  to ;  it  is  sorrowful  I 
am  after  you  to-night. 

I  am  looking  at  the  hawk  and  the  hound  my 
secret  love  used  to  be  hunting  with;  she  that 
loved  the  three,  let  her  be  put  in  the  grave  with 
Diarmuid. 

Let  us  be  glad  to-night,  let  us  make  all  wel- 
come to-night,  let  us  be  open-handed  to-night, 
since  we  are  sitting  by  the  body  of  a  king. 

And  O  Diarmuid,  she  said,  it  is  a  hard  bed 
Finn  has  given  you,  to  be  lying  on  the  stones 
and  to  be  wet  with  the  rain.  Ochone!  she  said, 
your  blue  eyes  to  be  without  sight,  you  that 
were  friendly  and  generous  and  pursuing.  O 
love !  O  Diarmuid !  it  is  a  pity  it  is  he  sent  you 
to  your  death. 

You  were  a  champion  of  the  men  of  Ireland, 
their  prop  in  the  middle  of  the  fight;  you  were 
the  head  of  every  battle;  your  ways  were  glad 
and  pleasant. 

It  is  sorrowful  I  am,  without  mirth,  without 


90      Her  Lament  for  His  Heath 

light,  but  only  sadness  and  grief  and  long  dying; 
your  harp  used  to  be  sweet  to  me,  it  wakened 
my  heart  to  gladness.  Now  my  courage  is 
fallen  down,  I  not  to  hear  you  but  to  be  always 
remembering  your  ways.  Och!  my  grief  is 
going  through  me. 

A  thousand  curses  on  the  day  when  Grania 
gave  you  her  love,  that  put  Finn  of  the  princes 
from  his  wits;  it  is  a  sorrowful  story  your  death 
is  to-day. 

You  were  the  man  was  best  of  the  Fenians, 
beautiful  Diarmuid,  that  women  loved.  It  is 
dark  your  dwelling-place  is  under  the  sod,  it  is 
mournful  and  cold  your  bed  is;  it  is  pleasant 
your  laugh  was  to-day;  you  were  my  happiness, 
Diarmuid. 


The  Parting  of  Goll  and   His   Wife 

AND  when  Goll  knew  Finn  to  be  watch- 
ing for  his  life  he  made  no  attempt 
to  escape  but  stopped  where  he  was, 
without  food,   without  drink,  and  he  blinded 
with  the  sand  that  was  blowing  into  his  eyes. 

And  his  wife  came  to  a  rock  where  she  could 
speak  with  him,  and  she  called  to  him  to  come 
to  her.  ' '  Come  over  to  me, ' '  she  said ; ' '  and  it  is 
a  pity  you  to  be  blinded  where  you  are,  on  the 
rocks  of  the  waste  sea,  with  no  drink  but  the 
salt  water,  a  man  that  was  first  in  every  fight. 
And  come  now  to  be  sleeping  beside  me,"  she 
said;  ''and  in  place  of  the  hard  sea-water  I  will 
nourish  you  from  my  own  breast,  and  it  is  I  will 
do  your  healing/'  she  said;  ''for  it  is  seven  years 

since  you  wedded  with  me,  and  from  that  night 

91 


92     Parting  of  Goll  and  His  Wife 

to  this  night  I  never  got  a  hard  word  from  you. 
And  the  gold  of  your  hair  is  my  desire  for  ever/' 
she  said,  '*and  do  not  stop  withering  there  like 
an  herb  in  the  winter-time,  and  my  heart  black 
with  grief  within  me." 

But  Goll  would  not  leave  the  spot  where  he 
was  for  all  she  could  say.  ' '  It  is  best  as  it  is, ''  he 
said,  ''  and  I  never  took  the  advice  of  a  woman 
east  or  west,  and  I  never  will  take  it.  And  O 
sweet-voiced  queen, ''  he  said,  ''what  ails  you  to 
be  fretting  after  me;  and  remember  now  your 
silver  and  your  gold,  and  your  silks  and  stuffs, 
and  remember  the  seven  hounds  I  gave  you  at 
Cruadh  Ceirrge,  and  every  one  of  them  without 
slackness  till  he  has  killed  the  deer.  And  do 
not  be  crying  tears  after  me,  queen  with  the 
white  hands,''  he  said;  ''but  remember  your 
constant  lover,  Aodh,  the  son  of  the  best  woman 
of  the  world,  that  came  out  from  Spain  asking 
for  you,  and  that  I  fought  at  Corcar-an-Deirg. 
And  go  to  him  now,"  he  said,  "for  it  is  bad 
when  a  woman  is  in  want  of  a  good  man." 


Parting  of  Goll  and  His  Wife     93 

And  he  lay  down  on  the  rocks,  and  at  the  end 
of  twelve  days  he  died.  And  his  wife  keened 
him  there,  and  made  a  great  lamentation  for  her 
husband  that  had  such  a  great  name,  and  that 
was  the  second  best  of  the  Fenians  of  Ireland. 


The  Death  of  Osgar 

AND  after  a  while,  at  noonday,  they  saw 
Finn  coming  towards  them,  and  what 
was  left  of  the  Sun-banner  raised  on  a 
spear-shaft.  All  of  them  saluted  Finn  then,  but 
he  made  no  answer,  and  he  came  up  to  the  hill 
where  Osgar  was.  And  when  Osgar  saw  him 
coming  he  saluted  him,  and  he  said,  ' '  I  have  got 
my  desire  in  death,  Finn  of  the  sharp  arms.'' 
And  Finn  said,  '*It  is  worse  the  way  you  were, 
my  son,  on  the  day  of  the  battle  at  Ben  Edair, 
when  the  wild  geese  could  swim  on  your  breast, 
and  it  was  my  hand  that  gave  you  healing.'' 
*' There  can  no  healing  be  done  for  me  now  for 
ever,"  said  Osgar,  ''since  the  King  of  Ireland 
put  the  spear  of  seven  spells  through  my  body." 
94 


The  Death  of  Osgar  95 

And  Finn  said,  ''it  is  a  pity  it  was  not  I  myself 
fell  in  sunny  scarce  Gabhra,  and  you  going  east 
and  west  at  the  head  of  the  Fenians/'  ''And 
if  it  was  yourself  fell  in  the  battle/'  said  Osgar, 
"you  would  not  hear  me  keening  after  you;  for 
no  man  ever  knew  any  heart  in  me,''  he  said, 
"but  a  heart  of  twisted  horn,  and  it  covered 
with  iron.  But  the  howling  of  the  dogs  beside 
me,  "  he  said,  "and  the  keening  of  the  old  fight- 
ing men  and  the  crying  of  the  women  one  after 
another,  those  are  the  things  that  are  vexing 
me."  And  Finn  said:  "child  of  my  child,  calf 
of  my  calf,  white  and  slender,  it  is  a  pity  the 
way  you  are.  And  my  heart  is  starting  like  a 
deer,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  weak  after  you  and 
after  the  Fenians  of  Ireland.  And  misfortune 
has  followed  us,"  he  said,  "and  farewell  now  to 
battles  and  to  a  great  name,  and  farewell  to 
taking  tributes ;  for  every  good  thing  I  ever  had 
is  gone  from  me  now,  "  he  said.  And  when  Os- 
gar heard  those  words  he  stretched  out  his 
hands,  and  his  eyelids  closed.    And  Finn  turned 


96  The  Death  of  Osgar 

away  from  the  rest,  and  he  cried  tears  down; 
and  he  never  shed  a  tear  through  the  whole 
length  of  his  lifetime  but  only  for  Osgar  and  for 
Bran, 


Oisin*s  Vision 

I  SAW  the  household  of  Finn ;  it  was  not  the 
household  of  a  soft  race ;  I  had  a  vision  of 
that  man  yesterday. 
I  saw  the  household  of  the  High  King,  he  with 
the  brown  sweet- voiced  son ;  I  never  saw  a  better 
man. 

I  saw  the  household  of  Finn;  no  one  saw  it  as 
I  saw  it;  I  saw  Finn  with  the  sword,  Mac  an 
Luin.    Och !  it  was  sorrowful  to  see  it. 

I  cannot  tell  out  every  harm  that  is  on  my 
head;  free  us  from  our  trouble  for  ever;  I  have 
seen  the  household  of  Finn. 


97 


His  Praise  of  Finn 

IT  is  a  week  from  yesterday  I  last  saw  Finn ; 
I  never  saw  a  braver  man.  A  king  of 
heavy  blows;  my  law,  my  adviser,  my 
sense  and  my  wisdom,  prince  and  poet,  braver 
than  kings,  King  of  the  Fenians,  brave  in  all 
countries ;  golden  salmon  of  the  sea,  clean  hawk 
of  the  air,  rightly  taught,  avoiding  lies;  strong 
in  his  doings,  a  right  judge,  ready  in  courage, 
a  high  messenger  in  bravery  and  in  music. 

His  skin  lime- white,  his  hair  golden;  ready  to 
work,  gentle  to  women;  his  great  green  vessels 
full  of  rough  sharp  wine.  It  is  rich  the  king  was, 
the  head  of  his  people. 

Seven  sides  Finn's  house  had,  and  seven  score 
shields  on  every  side.  Fifty  fighting  men  he  had 
about  him  having  woollen   cloaks;  ten  bright 

98 


His  Praise  of  Finn  99 

drinking-cups  in  his  hall,  ten  blue  vessels,  ten 
golden  horns. 

It  is  a  good  household  Finn  had,  without 
grudging,  without  lust,  without  vain  boasting, 
without  chattering,  without  any  slur  on  any  one 
of  the  Fenians.  Finn  never  refused  any  man: 
he  never  put  away  any  one  that  came  to  his 
house.  If  the  brown  leaves  falling  in  the  woods 
were  gold,  if  the  white  waves  were  silver,  Finn 
would  have  given  away  the  whole  of  it. 


Oisin  after  the  Fenians 

NOW  my  strength  is  gone  from  me,  I 
that  was  adviser  to  the  Fenians,  my 
whole  body  is  tired  to-night,  my 
hands,  my  feet,  and  my  head;  tired,  tired, 
tired. 

It  is  bad  the  way  I  am  after  Finn  of  the 
Fenians;  since  he  is  gone  away,  every  good  is 
behind  me. 

Without  great  people,  without  mannerly 
ways;  it  is  sorrowful  I  am  after  our  king  that 
is  gone. 

I  am  a  shaking  tree,  my  leaves  gone  from  me ; 
an  empty  nut,  a  horse  without  a  bridle;  a  people 
without  a  dwelling-place,  I  Oisin,  son  of  Finn. 

It  is  long  the  clouds  are  over  me  to-night !  it  is 

lOO 


Oisin  after  the  Fenians        loi 

long  last  night  was;  although  this  day  is  long, 
yesterday  was  longer  again  to  me;  every  day 
that  comes  is  long  to  me. 

That  is  not  the  way  I  used  to  be,  without 
fighting,  without  battles,  without  learning  feats, 
without  young  girls,  without  music,  without 
harps,  without  bruising  bones,  without  great 
deeds;  without  increase  of  learning,  without 
generosity,  without  drinking  at  feasts,  without 
courting,  without  hunting,  the  two  trades  I  was 
used  to;  without  going  out  to  battle.  Ochone! 
the  want  of  them  is  sorrowful  to  me. 

No  hunting  of  deer  or  stag,  it  is  not  like  that  I 
would  wish  to  be;  no  leashes  for  our  hounds,  no 
hounds;  it  is  long  the  clouds  are  over  me  to- 
night ! 

Without  rising  up  to  do  bravery  as  we  were 
used,  without  playing  as  we  had  a  mind;  with- 
out swimming  of  our  fighting  men  in  the  lake; 
it  is  long  the  clouds  are  over  me  to-night ! 

There  is  no  one  at  all  in  the  world  the  way 
I  am;  it  is  a  pity  the  way  I  am;  an  old  m.an 


102         Oisin  after  the  Fenians 

dragging  stones.     It  is  long  the  clouds  are  over 
me  to-night ! 

I  am  the  last  of  the  Fenians,  great  Oisin,  son 
of  Finn,  listening  to  the  voice  of  bells;  it  is  long 
the  clouds  are  over  me  to-night ! 


The  Foretelling  of  Cathbad  the 
Druid  at  Deirdre's  Birth 

LET  Deirdre  be  her  name :  harm  will  come 
through  her.     She  will  be  fair,  comely, 
bright-haired :  heroes  will  fight  for  her, 
and  kings  go  seeking  for  her. 

O  Deirdre,  on  whose  account  many  shall  weep, 
on  whose  account  many  women  shall  be  envious, 
there  will  be  trouble  on  Ulster  for  your  sake,  O 
fair  daughter  of  Fedlimid. 

Many  will  be  jealous  of  your  face,  O  flame  of 
beauty;  for  your  sake  heroes  shall  go  to  exile. 
For  your  sake  deeds  of  anger  shall  be  done  in 
Emain;  there  is  harm  in  your  face,  for  it  will 
bring   banishment   and   death   on   the  sons  of 

kings. 

103 


104     Foretelling  at  Deirdre's  Birth 

In  your  fate,  O  beautiful  child,  are  wounds 
and  ill-doings  and  shedding  of  blood. 

You  will  have  a  little  grave  apart  to  yourself; 
you  will  be  a  tale  of  wonder  for  ever,  Deirdre. 


Deirdre's  Lament  for  the  Sons  of 
Usnach 

AS  for  Deirdre,  she  cried  pitifully,  wearily, 
and  tore  her  fair  hair,  and  she  was 
talking  of  the  sons  of  Usnach,  and  of 
Alban,  and  it  is  what  she  said : 

A  blessing  eastward  to  Alban  from  me;  good 
is  the  sight  of  her  bays  and  valleys,  pleasant  was 
it  to  sit  on  the  slopes  of  her  hills,  where  the  sons 
of  Usnach  used  to  be  hunting. 

One  day,  when  the  nobles  of  Alban  were 
drinking  with  the  sons  of  Usnach,  Naoise  gave  a 
kiss  secretly  to  the  daughter  of  the  lord  of  Dun- 
treon.  He  sent  her  a  frightened  deer,  wild,  and 
a  fawn  at  its  foot;  and  he  went  to  visit  her 
coming  home  from  the  troops  of  Inverness. 
105 


io6  Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach 

When  myself  heard  that,  my  head  filled  full  of 
jealousy;  I  put  my  boat  on  the  waves,  it  was 
the  same  to  me  to  live  or  to  die.  They  followed 
me  swimming,  Ainnle  and  Ardan,  that  never 
said  a  lie;  they  turned  me  back  again,  two  that 
would  give  battle  to  a  hundred.  Naoise  gave 
me  his  true  word,  he  swore  three  times  with  his 
arms  as  witness,  he  would  never  put  vexation 
on  me  again,  until  he  would  go  from  me  to  the 
armies  of  the  dead. 

Och !  if  she  knew  to-night,  Naoise  to  be  under 
a  covering  of  clay,  it  is  she  would  cry  her  fill, 
and  it  is  I  would  cry  along  with  her  1 

After  that  Deirdre  lay  down  by  the  grave, 
and  they  were  digging  earth  from  it,  and  she 
made  this  lament  after  the  sons  of  Usnach : 

Long  is  the  day  without  the  sons  of  Usnach; 
it  was  never  wearisome  to  be  in  their  company; 
sons  of  a  king  that  entertained  exiles ;  three  lions 
of  the  Hill  of  the  Cave. 

Three  darlings  of  the  women  of  Britain; 
three  hawks  of  Slieve  Cuilenn;  sons  of  a  king 


Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach  107 

served  by  valour,  to  whom  warriors  did 
obedience. 

Three  heroes  not  good  at  homage ;  their  fall  is 
a  cause  of  sorrow;  three  sons  of  the  sister  of  a 
king ;  three  props  of  the  army  of  Cuailgne. 

The  High  King  of  Ulster,  my  first  betrothed, 
I  forsook  for  love  of  Naoise ;  short  my  life  will  be 
after  him ;  I  will  make  keening  at  their  burial. 

That  I  would  live  after  Naoise  let  no  one  think 
on  the  earth;  I  will  not  go  on  living  after  Ainnle 
and  after  Ardan. 

After  them  I  myself  will  not  live;  three  that 
would  leap  through  the  midst  of  battle;  since 
my  beloved  is  gone  from  me  I  will  cry  my  fill 
over  his  grave. 

O,  young  man,  digging  the  new  grave,  do  not 
make  the  grave  narrow;  I  will  be  along  with 
them  in  the  grave,  making  lamentations  and 
ochones ! 

Many  the  hardship  I  met  with  along  with  the 
three  heroes;  I  suffered  want  of  home,  want  of 
fire,  it  is  myself  that  used  not  to  be  troubled. 


io8  Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach 

Their  three  shields  and  their  spears  made  a 
bed  for  me  often.  O,  young  man,  put  their  three 
swords  close  over  their  grave ! 

Their  three  hounds,  their  three  hawks,  will  be 
from  this  time  without  huntsmen ;  three  aids  of 
every  battle;  three  pupils  of  Conall  Ceamach. 

The  three  leashes  of  those  three  hounds  have 
brought  a  sigh  from  my  heart ;  it  is  I  had  the  care 
of  them,  the  sight  of  them  is  a  cause  of  grief. 

I  was  never  one  day  alone  to  the  day  of  the 
making  of  this  grave,  though  it  is  often  that 
myself  and  yourselves  were  in  loneliness. 

My  sight  is  gone  from  me  with  looking  at  the 
grave  of  Naoise ;  it  is  short  till  my  life  will  leave 
me,  and  those  who  would  have  keened  me  do  not 
live. 

Since  it  is  through  me  they  were  betrayed  I 
will  be  tired  out  with  sorrow;  it  is  a  pity  I  was 
not  in  the  earth  before  the  sons  of  Usnach  were 
killed. 

Sorrowful  was  my  journey  with  Fergus,  be- 
traying me  to  the  Red  Branch ;  we  were  deceived 


Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach  109 

all  together  with  his  sweet,  flowery  words.  I 
left  the  delights  of  Ulster  for  the  three  heroes 
that  were  bravest;  my  life  will  not  be  long,  I 
myself  am  alone  after  them. 

I  am  Deirdre  without  gladness,  and  I  at  the 
end  of  my  life;  since  it  is  grief  to  be  without 
them,  I  myself  will  not  be  long  after  them ! 


Emer's  Lament  for  Cuchulain 

AND  Emer  took  the  head  of  Cuchulain 
in  her  hands,  and  she  washed  it  clean, 
and  put  a  silk  cloth  about  it,  and  she 
held  it  to  her  breast,  and  she  began  to  cry 
heavily  over  it,  and  she  made  this  complaint : 

Och,  head !  Ochone,  O  head !  you  gave  death 
to  great  heroes,  to  many  hundreds;  my  head 
will  lie  in  the  same  grave,  the  one  stone  will  be 
made  for  both  of  us. 

Och,  hand!  Ochone,  hand,  that  was  once 
gentle.  It  is  often  it  was  put  under  my  head; 
it  is  dear  that  hand  was  to  me. 

Dear  mouth!    Ochone,  kind  mouth  that  was 

sweet- voiced  telling  stories;  since  the  time  love 

first  came  on  your  face,  you  never  refused  either 

weak  or  strong. 

no 


Emer's  Lament  for  Cuchulain    iii 

Dear  the  man,  dear  the  man,  that  would  kill 
the  whole  of  a  great  army ;  dear  his  cold  bright 
hair,  and  dear  his  bright  cheeks ! 

Dear  the  king,  dear  the  king,  that  never  gave 
a  refusal  to  any ;  thirty  days  it  is  to-night  since 
my  body  lay  beside  your  body. 

Och,  two  spears !  Ochone,  two  spears !  Och, 
shield !  Och,  deadly  sword !  Let  them  be  given, 
to  Conall  of  the  battles;  there  was  never  any 
wage  given  the  like  of  that. 

I  am  glad,  I  am  glad,  Cuchulain  of  Muir- 
themne,  I  never  brought  red  shame  on  your 
face,  for  any  unfaithfulness  against  you, 

Happy  are  they,  happy  are  they,  who  will 
never  hear  the  cuckoo  again  for  ever,  now  that 
the  Hound  has  died  from  us. 

I  am  carried  away  like  a  branch  on  the  stream; 
I  will  not  bind  up  my  hair  to-day.  Prom  this 
day  I  have  nothing  to  say  that  is  better  than 
Ochone!  *'And  oh!  my  love,"  she  said,  ''we 
were  often  in  one  another's  company,  and  it  was 
happy  for  us ;  for  if  the  world  had  been  searched 


112   Emer's  Lament  for  Cuchulain 

from  the  rising  of  the  sun  to  sunset,  the  like 
would  never  have  been  found  in  one  place,  of 
the  Black  Sainglain  and  the  Grey  of  Macha,  and 
Laeg  the  chariot-driver,  and  myself  and  Cuchu- 
lain. And  it  is  breaking  my  heart  is  in  my  body, 
to  be  listening  to  the  pity  and  the  sorrowing  of 
women  and  men,  and  the  harsh  crying  of  the 
young  men  of  Ulster  keening  Cuchulain. '' 
And  after  that  Emer  bade  Conall  to  make  a 
wide,  very  deep  grave  for  Cuchulain;  and  she 
laid  herself  down  beside  her  gentle  comrade, 
and  she  put  her  mouth  to  his  mouth,  and  she 
said:  *'Love  of  my  life,  my  friend,  my  sweet- 
heart, my  one  choice  of  the  men  of  the  earth, 
many  is  the  woman,  wed  or  unwed,  envied  me 
till  to-day ;  and  now  I  will  not  stay  living  after 
you." 


Ji  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

C.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Complete  Catalogue  sont 
om  appU«atioii 


Irish  Folk-History  Plays 

By 
LADY  GREGORY 

First  Series.    The  Tragedies 
GRANIA  KINGORA  DERVORGILLA 

Second  Series.     The   Tragic   Comedies 

THE  CANAVANS  THE  WHITE  COCKADE 

THE  DELIVERER 

2  vols.    Each,  $l.50  net.    By  mail,  $1.65 

Lady  Gregory  has  preferred  going  for  her  material  to  the  tra- 
ditional folk-history  rather  than  to  the  authorized  printed  versions, 
and  she  has  been  able,  in  so  doing,  to  make  her  plays  more  living. 
One  of  these,  iCt/tcora,  telling  of  Brian  Boru,  who  reigned  in  the 
year  looo,  evoked  such  keen  local  interest  that  an  old  farmer 
travelled  from  the  neighborhood  of  Kincora  to  see  it  acted  in 
Dublin. 

The  story  of  Grania,  on  which  Lady  Gregory  has  founded  one 
of  these  plays,  was  taken  entirely  from  tradition.  Grania  was  a 
beautiful  young  woman  and  was  to  have  been  married  to  Finn,  the 
great  leader  of  the  Fenians;  but  before  the  marriage,  she  went 
away  from  the  bridegroom  with  his  handsome  young  kinsman, 
Diarmuid.  After  many  years,  when  Diarmuid  had  died  (and  Finn 
had  a  hand  in  his  death),  she  went  back  to  Finn  and  became  his 
queen. 

Another  of  Lady  Gregory's  plays.  The  Canaoans  dealt  with 
the  stormy  times  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  whose  memory  is  a  horror  in 
Ireland  second  only  to  that  of  Cromwell. 

The  XVhite  Cockade  is  founded  on  a  tradition  of  King  James 
having  escaped  from  Ireland  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne  in  a  wine 
barrel. 

The  choice  of  folk  history  rather  than  written  history  gives  a 
freshness  of  treatment  and  elasticity  of  material  which  made  the 
late  J.  M.  Synge  say  that  "  Lady  Gregory's  method  had  brought 
back  the  possibility  of  writing  historic  plays." 

All  these  plays,  except  Grania,  which  has  not  yet  been  staged, 
have  been  very  successfully  performed  in  Ireland.  They  are  written 
in  the  dialect  of  Kiltartan,  which  had  already  become  famiiiar  to 
readers  of  Lady  Gregory's  books. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


New  Comedies 

By 
LADY  GREGORY 

The    Bogie   Men— The    Full    Moon— Coats 
Darner's  Gold— McDonough's  Wife 

^%    With  Portrait  in  Photogravure,   $150  net    By  mail,  $165 

The  plays  have  been  acted  with  great  success 
by  the  Abbey  Company,  and  have  been  highly 
extolled  by  appreciative  audiences  and  an  en- 
thusiastic press.  They  are  distinguished  by  a 
humor  of  unchallenged  originality. 

One  of  the  plays  in  the  collection,  **  Coats," 
depends  for  its  plot  upon  the  rivalry  of  two 
editors,  each  of  whom  has  written  an  obituary 
notice  of  the  other.  The  dialogue  is  full  of 
crisp  humor.  **  McDonough's  Wife,*'  another 
drama  that  appears  in  the  volume,  is  based  on  a 
legend,  and  explains  how  a  whole  town  rendered 
honor  against  its  will.  **  The  Bogie  Men  *'  has  as 
its  underlying  situation  an  amusing  misunder- 
standing of  two  chimney-sweeps.  The  wit  and 
absurdity  of  the  dialogue  are  in  Lady  Gregory's 
best  vein.  **  Damer's  Gold ''  contains  the  story 
of  a  miser  beset  by  his  gold-hungry  relations. 
Their  hopes  and  plans  are  upset  by  one  they  had 
believed  to  be  of  the  simple  of  the  world,  but 
who  confounds  the  Wisdom  of  the  Wise.  **  The 
Full  Moon  '*  presents  a  little  comedy  enacted  on 
an  Irish  railway  station.  It  is  characterized  by 
humor  of  an  original  and  delightful  character 
and  repartee  that  is  distinctly  clever. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS         ^ 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


The  Golden  Apple 

A  Kiltartan  Play  for  Children 

By 

Lady  Gregory 

Author  of  '*  Seven  Short  Plays  " 

**Our  Irish  Theatre*' 
**  Irish  Folk-History  Plays, ''etc. 

S°    Eight  full-page  Illustrations  in  color 
$1.50  net.     By  mail,  $1.65 

This  play  deals  with  the  adventures 
of  the  King  of  Ireland^s  son,  who  goes 
in  search  of  the  Golden  Apple  of  Heal- 
ing. The  scenes  are  laid  in  the  Witch's 
Garden,  the  Giant's  House,  the  Wood 
of  Wonders,  and  the  King  of  Ireland's 
Room.  It  is  both  humorous  and  lyrical, 
and  should  please  children  and  their 
elders,  alike.  The  colored  illustrations 
have  the  same  old  faery-tale  air  as  the 
play  itself. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Seven  Short  Plays 

By 

Lady  Gregory 

Author  of  "New  Comedies/'  "Our  Irish  Theatre,"  etc 

J2°.     $1.^0  net.    By  mail,  $1,65 

The  plays  in  this  volume  are  the  following: 
Spreading  the  News,  Hyacinth  Halvey,  The 
Rising  of  the  Moon,  The  JackdaWf  The  Work'* 
house  Ward,  The  Travelling  Man,  The  Gaol  Gate^ 
The  volume  also  contains  music  for  the  songs  in 
the  plays  and  notes  explaining  the  conception  of 
the  plays. 

Among  the  three  great  exponents  of  the 
modem  Celtic  movement  in  Ireland,  Lady 
Gregory  holds  an  unusual  place.  It  is  she  from 
whom  came  the  chief  historical  impulse  which 
resulted  in  the  re-creation  for  the  present 
generation  of  the  elemental  poetry  of  early 
Ireland,  its  wild  disorders,  its  loves  and  hates — 
all  the  passionate  light  and  shadow  of  that  fierce 
and  splendid  race. 


G*  P*  Putnam^s  Sons 

New  York  London 


Date  Due 


^U?'/ 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3  9031   01192381   0 


